


You're On the Air

by prettysailorsoldier



Series: 25 Days of Johnlock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Matchmaking, Radio, Teenlock, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 16:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2699969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i><b>Prompt:</b> Matchmaker!Sherlock & Assistant!John. Sherlock keeps John as his assistant since he knows a few things about love/sex that Sherlock doesn't know/fully understand (Three Continents Watson) and that could lead to possible matches since Sherlock only uses chemical and natural body reactions to determine who to match-make and so on (pupils dilate, quick heartbeat, body language...).  - anon</i>
</p><p> </p><p>The Consulting Detective and The Woman dominate the airwaves of their university radio station, doling out advice on everything from meeting the parents to sexual positions. When their ratings start to dip before the holidays, however, manager Mike thinks it's time for some fresh blood, and who better to fill in the gaps than rugby captain--and notorious flirt--John Watson?</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're On the Air

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Прямой эфир](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5116295) by [Hedwig221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedwig221b/pseuds/Hedwig221b)



> While I cannot guarantee I will be able to write your prompt, there is always a lot of overlap and/or combining, so feel free to keep submitting them to me up until the end of the series! You can leave your prompts in comments here on ao3, or on [my Tumblr](http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Also, I put this one at M because it seems like E ought to be reserved for...well... BUT, if you feel it should be moved up, please let me know, and I'll change it.

“I’m sorry, what was that? It’s rather difficult to understand you while you’re sniffling like that.”

There was a rap on the window, and Sherlock looked up, finding Molly glaring reproachfully at him through the glass. He sighed, rolling his eyes, and then waved a hand at her in resignation. “You say you think he’s cheating on you?” he coaxed, tone softening as he tugged at the microphone arm, bringing the silver instrument closer to his mouth. “What’s given you that impression?”

“Well,” the girl spluttered, her voice grating around the studio, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, “he’s been real secretive lately. Taking phone calls out of the room, saying he’s going out for milk or whatever, but then not bringing any back. Tried to tell me Tesco was out of milk! Tesco! Out of _milk_!”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed in feigned commiseration, tapping his finger impatiently on the faux wood laminate of the oval table. “And what else have you noticed? Has he been acting anxious at all? Asking you any strangely specific questions?”

“Specific- You know what, he _has_!” the woman spouted, as if this was supposed to be news to Sherlock, in spite of the fact that he was the one who had asked.

Molly clipped a finger at the window in warning, and Sherlock turned his arms out in a shrug at her, not having done anything to merit the ire. Not yet, anyway, but Molly clearly wasn’t holding out much hope, two fingers pointing between her eyes and his face.

“The other day, he asked what my favorite Italian dish was—I’m Italian.”

“I surmised.”

Another knock on the window.

“He said he was going to get takeaway that night, but then he came home with Thai. I just figured he changed his mind.”

“No, um, Anna, was it?” Sherlock muttered, folding his hands beneath his chin.

“Amy,” the woman replied tersely, and Sherlock flicked a dismissive hand she couldn’t see.

“Immaterial. Your boyfriend isn’t cheating on you; he’s planning to propose.”

Stunned silence ruled for a whole four seconds before Sherlock continued, Anna Amy clearly not coming up with anything soon.

“He’s going to take you to whatever Italian place you frequent this weekend, seeing as how you mentioned you don’t see much of one another during the week, and he’s likely been calling to arrange the reservation and specific meals ahead of time, thus why he asked you what dish you preferred and why he’s being protective of his telephone conversations. The flimsy excuse of the milk you mentioned was most probably a cover for a trip to the jewelers, as no one in their right mind uses dairy products as an excuse to sneak out to their mistress, and they certainly don’t then _forget_ them, but, regardless, I doubt he was gone any amount of time that would’ve been remotely satisfying for either party-“

A furious round of knocking rattled the window.

“-so, clearly,” Sherlock continued, wrapping up with an understanding nod to Molly, “you’re not being cheated on. You’re just being roped into a lifelong commitment with someone who will eventually make you want to gouge your own eyes out every time they slurp the milk from their breakfast cereal.”

The woman let out a startled little laugh, breathy with disbelief, and Sherlock turned to Molly, shrugging innocently as he watched her lift a palm to her face, shaking her head down at the control panel.

“Oh my god!” she squealed, laughing. “Propose? You really think he’s going to propose?”

“I wouldn’t have wasted the oxygen to form the words if I didn’t,” Sherlock replied dryly, but the woman just laughed.

“Oh my god. Oh my _god_!”

“Yes, congratulations to you both,” Sherlock muttered, and then disconnected the call with a swift click of the glowing red button in front of him as he snatched up the script Molly had written for him. “Well, I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for tonight,” he said, pulling the microphone back toward him as he leaned into the chair, “but I’ll see you all tomorrow for The Roundtable, 11pm ‘til whenever you run out of problems every Friday, and don’t forget to tune in next Tuesday and Thursday at 10 with your questions for me, your resident Consulting Detective, on the case so you don’t…lose face.” He paused, raising an eyebrow up at Molly, who gave him a double thumbs-up beneath a brilliant grin. “Up next” he continued, shaking off the absurdity with a rattle of his head, “we’ve got The Woman, here to answer all those questions you couldn’t ask your parents, but, for right now, enjoy some sounds of the season. This is Sherlock Holmes signing off with Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’. In November,” he added, the song quickly sweeping up to overtake any further adlibbing as the ‘On Air’ sign flickered dark.

“Well done,” a drawling voice said, and Irene Adler slinked into the room, entirely in black apart from her crimson mouth. “Probably only lost a dozen listeners tonight.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pushing back on the wheels of the chair as he stood. “If they don’t like what they hear, they don’t have to call,” he snapped, grabbing his coat and scarf from the hooks just inside the door.

“Yes, but,” Irene chirped, flopping herself down into Sherlock’s vacated spot, spinning in a single revolution before stopping herself with the tip of a patent pump, “we wouldn’t exactly have a _show_ if they stopped calling. Kind of need people in order to give advice.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock muttered, shrugging as he looped his scarf around his neck, “I think I could dole out some general pointers for the masses.”

Irene laughed, slipping her arms from her sleeves before settling the coat over the back of the chair, a chunky grey jumper revealed from beneath it, and then there was a knock on the door, drawing both their attention.

“Hey, guys,” Mike said, giving them a small flick of a wave as he entered, Molly following along in his wake. “I wanted to catch you before you left. Do you think you can get here a little early tomorrow? Say…10ish?”

“Why?” Sherlock and Irene said in tandem, flashing a glance at one another before looking back to Mike.

“Nothing, really,” Mike very clearly lied, scratching up the back of his neck with one hand, the other slipping into a pocket of his jeans, “just have a few more things than normal to go over at the meeting. Great job tonight, Sherlock,” he added with a smile, dissuading Sherlock slightly from pestering him for the truth. “Especially with that Rick guy. Calling in to ask advice on how to break up with _two_ girlfriends so he can date the _third_? God, I hope they were listening!”

“He didn’t say that, though,” Sherlock reminded. “I simply deduced it.”

“But still,” Mike replied, shrugging as he waved a hand toward Sherlock’s chest. “You’re always right. If they were listening, surely they’d believe you.”

Sherlock scoffed, smiling as he flipped his collar up. “I find it easiest to never underestimate a person’s capacity for denial,” he countered, and Mike chuckled, tipping his head to concede the point.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” the man said, smiling at them both in turn before moving back to the door. “You’ll lock up when you’re done?” he asked, hovering as he lifted his brows at Irene, who they had long ago stopped waiting for, her segment going as long as she could stand to be awake and still talking about sex, which was always much later than any of them could bear.

Irene rolled her eyes, but her smile was playful. “Don’t I always?” she sighed, and Mike smiled, nodding.

“Alright, see ya, then,” he bade, waving a hand at them before starting down the hall.

“You ready?” Molly asked, looking past Sherlock to Irene, who nodded, cueing Molly to disappear back into the control room, setting the system up for her segment before she too would leave.

“Well, bye,” Sherlock muttered, suddenly standing awkwardly alone, and Irene laughed, grinning over her shoulder at him as she adjusted the microphone.

“Night, Dick,” she replied, a derivative of ‘detective’ that Sherlock could not seem to cure her fondness for, no matter how hot his glare, so he simply sniffed, spinning on his heels and closing the door on her laughter.

The lift creaked slightly on its way to the bottom level, and then he stepped free of the metal box, feet slapping against the floor as he strode briskly down the corridor to the exit. Pulling the door open, he stepped out onto the pavement, making sure the latch was secure and locked before setting off down the street, making his way up to the nearest main street.

The radio station was in what had originally been an office building near the Bart’s campus, but had been converted when the university bought the building some years ago. The first two floors were devoted mostly to administrative offices, but the three above that were given to student organizations. The studios for the various radio broadcasts were on the top floor, the university television channel was based just below them, and, yet another floor down, was the school newspaper. They were always the last to leave, however, going as late as they pleased before diverting to music and local news until the morning group came in, a ragtag team of morons who frequently interrupted the weather report with the latest pop hit.

Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to stand it, getting stuck with the morning bunch, but, then again, he hadn’t really wanted to do any of this at all.

Mike and Molly were part of the student radio society, Mike being president and manager of the station, and it had been Molly who had originally brought the idea to him about doing an advice segment to fill up some of the evenings. She had promptly suggested her friend Irene, who had suggested Sherlock, and now, four months later, here he was, taking the mic every Tuesday and Thursday to do his best to correct the idiocy that plagued their campus. Although he wasn’t allowed to say that on air anymore.

A gust of wind swept down from the sky, buffeting at his coat, and he tugged up the collar before slipping his hands into his pockets, pulling the fabric further around his legs as he broke out onto the main road. With a wave of his hand, he hailed a passing cab, sliding into the back as he pulled out his mobile to text Lestrade for updates on their latest case.

“221B Baker Street,” he said, and the cabbie nodded, setting off while Sherlock swiped his fingers over the keys.

*********

He was, surprisingly, not the last to arrive on Friday.

Irene was already there, as was Molly, but Mike was nowhere to be seen, though Sherlock had seen his jacket draped over the chair in the control room.

“Evening, Dick,” Irene said, flicking her head up at him from her chair, and Sherlock glared as he hung up his scarf and coat. “You’re early. Only ten minutes late.”

“Yes, well, I’ve got to keep you on your toes,” he muttered back, and Irene laughed, kicking out the chair on the opposite side of the table for him to sit down. Sherlock slipped down onto the seat, the spinning wheels squeaking as he rolled back to the table. “So, what’s going on?” he asked, turning to Molly when Irene shrugged.

The girl shuffled the papers in front of her, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Dunno,” she murmured, looking sheepishly up at Sherlock through her lashes, but the detective only narrowed his eyes. She sighed, rolling a glance over the ceiling. “Alright, fine, so I do know,” she admitted, shifting her clipboard aimlessly across the table, “but I can’t say anything. Mike wanted to tell you himself.”

“Imparting information tends to work better when you’re actually _present,_ ” Sherlock snipped, folding his arms as he flopped back into his chair.

“Can’t you give us a hint?” Irene asked, leaning forward across the tables, her arms draping over the surface. “I feel like I’m walking into an intervention or something.”

“Yes, Irene,” Sherlock deadpanned, “we’ve all gathered here today out of concern for your switch from liquid to gel eyeliner.”

Molly snorted, but Irene just smiled, lifting her hands to perch her chin on them.

“Funny,” she chirped, “and here I thought it was about the stick up your ass.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but the door opening cut him off, Mike bustling in with a rush of haggard breaths.

“Sorry I’m late,” he huffed, bag dropping to the floor as he scrabbled at the zipper of his coat. “Forgot I was supposed to pick John up.”

“John?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head. “Who’s-”

“Me.” A man popped into the room from behind Mike, smiling a little sheepishly as he lifted a hand in a small flick of a wave. “I’m-I’m John.” The waving hand lifted to his hair, rattling loose bits of snow as he stepped further into the room, and Sherlock nearly fell out of his chair, sure the floor actually moved beneath him.

The man apparently named John looked to be about his age, with straw-blond hair that flickered gold in the overhead lights and blue eyes that deserved an entirely different word, ‘blue’ not quite worthy to describe them. He was wearing a trim black jumper beneath a red and white jacket, emblazoned with the QMUL crest on the chest and ‘Captain’ across the sleeve, as well as dark jeans that led to worn trainers, and, as Sherlock stared at him, stunned and immobile, the boy’s eyes locked onto his, his smile twitching a little higher at one end.

“This is my friend, John Watson,” Mike explained, gesturing toward the boy, who bobbed his head politely to Molly and Irene. “We’re on the rugby team together. Well, sort of; John’s the captain.”

“I’m still on the team,” John chuckled, smiling across at his friend.

There was a squeak from Sherlock’s right, and he snapped his head to find Irene shuffling her chair in closer, eyes narrowing at John from across the table.

“You’re in the med program, right?” she asked, and John blinked at her, frowning in confusion. “I was at the sports awards thing last year,” Irene explained with a flick of her hand, leaning back into her chair. “There was a write-up about you in the pamphlet.”

“Um, well, yeah, there was,” John laughed, shaking his head wonderingly at her. “That was over a year ago, though. And I don’t think we met.”

“Oh, no,” Irene dismissed, and then smiled, teeth glittering within their red frame, “but I never forget a pretty face.”

John laughed, stepping forward as Irene stood up, rounding the table.

“Irene Adler,” she introduced, extending a hand, and John took it, bobbing it once in the air. “Or The Woman, if you’d prefer,” she added with a wink, and John grinned.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, dropping her hand, and Irene smirked with a waggle of her brows.

“Not yet, it isn’t,” she purred, and John laughed, shaking his head down at the ground.

“Ya know, you’re exactly the same,” he chuckled, pointing a finger at her. “I always figured you guys sort of put it on for the radio a bit, but apparently not.”

“No need to fix what isn’t broken,” Irene chirped, and then turned, casting a glance to pull Sherlock into this mess. “Sherlock’s the same too,” she said, beaming at him in ill omen. “Equally unpleasant on and off the air.”

Sherlock tilted his head, smiling back at her. “Well, we can’t all have your charms,” he countered, and John bit his lip, dropping his face as he suppressed a grin.

When he lifted his eyes, they settled on Sherlock, twinkling over a small smile. “I dunno,” he murmured, shrugging a shoulder, “he’s not _all_ unpleasant.”

Sherlock quirked a brow in inquiry, and John chuckled, turning his body further toward him.

“I called a few months back,” he explained, slipping his hands into his pockets. “About my sister? You told me she was an alcoholic lesbian.”

Sherlock’s lips dropped apart in recognition, the familiar grip of panicked regret tightening around his heart. He’d never even _met_ John, and he’d already ruined it. “Oh,” he murmured, but John just laughed, startling Sherlock into a round of blinking.

“It’s fine,” the blond assured, nodding. “You were right, and we were able to get her help. 36 days sober.”

“Oh,” Sherlock repeated, a little brighter this time, and John grinned, a perplexing reaction that nearly floored Sherlock yet again. Seriously, were they having an earthquake or something?

“Why don’t you have a seat,” Mike interrupted, waving John toward the chair next to Sherlock, who quickly shuffled back away from it, Irene shooting him an odd look as she walked back to her place. “Now, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to all of you about,” Mike began, settling in beside Molly at the head of the table. “The shows have been getting more popular, but we seem to have plateaued in the past month or so. The morning program is surpassing us on viewers more and more every week, and we have to find a way to compete.”

“Er, Mike?” Irene interjected, lifting her hand off the table in a half raise. “You do realize this is a _student_ radio station? It doesn’t matter who gets more viewers, none of us are being paid.”

“Still,” Mike muttered, gesturing at Molly, who slid a folder across to him, “it’s a point of pride. And your content is way better than theirs anyway, there’s no reason we shouldn’t be wiping the floor with them.”

“Another row with Roger?” Sherlock presumed, the rivalry between Mike and the morning manager something of legend around the station, and Mike flicked a glare at him.

“Recently,” he snapped, barreling on, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows across at Irene, who shook with a quickly suppressed giggle, “they’ve added a new member to their team, Scott. He does the weather and traffic report.”

“The one who does those _absurd_ impressions?” Sherlock blurted, grimacing in disgust as Mike nodded.

“Yes, and they’re extremely popular,” Mike chided, and Sherlock scoffed. “He’s very good at them.”

“Yes, his imbecile is the best I’ve ever heard,” Sherlock countered, and John snorted loudly beside him.

“Sorry,” he muttered as Mike’s glare shifted to him, and then cleared his throat, flicking a sidelong glance across to Sherlock as his lips twitched.

“No matter what our _personal_ feelings are,” Mike continued, looking between Sherlock and John in his own impeccable impression of Sherlock’s primary school teacher, “he’s given them a real boost. So, I think it’s time we struck back.”

“Battle stations everyone!” Irene said fiercely, a ripple of chuckling moving around the table.

“I’m serious!” Mike spluttered, and Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes as he leaned an elbow on the table.

“Alright then,” he muttered, twirling a hand through the air, “what do _you_ have in mind?”

Mike smiled triumphantly, back straightening in his chair. “ _We_ add someone new,” he said, flipping open the folder in front of him, and Sherlock quirked a brow.

“I think we all could have guessed that much,” he said drily, and Mike sighed, rattling his head as he rummaged through the papers. “I meant _who_ exactly?”

Mike lifted his face, eyes settling on John, whose brow furrowed as he scanned over Mike’s growing smile. “John,” the man said simply, and the owner of the name blinked, clearly stunned.

“What?” he blustered, pushing back away from the table, and Mike turned toward him, hands batting in the air.

“No, no, hear me out!” Mike pleaded, but John only shook his head.

“You told me we were just stopping in here!” he bleated. “Said you needed to pick up a few things before lunch!”

“I lied,” Mike admitted with a tip of his head, and John’s mouth dropped open, “but only because I knew you’d never go for it if I told you the truth.”

“Yeah, well, congratulations on your psychic abilities, because I’m _not_ going for it,” John snapped, hands gripping at the side of the table as he made to stand up, but Mike leaned forward in his chair, arms stretching out in halt.

“Wait, John, please!” he pleaded, and John’s jaw stiffened, the man clearly torn. “I need your help! You’re _perfect_ for this!”

“How?” John spouted, shaking his head. “I don’t know a damn thing about relationships!”

“But you date all the time!” Mike countered, and John’s face fell flat.

“Gee, thanks,” he deadpanned, and Mike sighed, rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“Look, Irene handles all the sex stuff,” he said, waving a hand at the woman, who winked, her mouth shifting as she clicked her tongue, “and Sherlock does his deduction thing about cheating and breakups and such.”

“My ‘deduction thing’?” Sherlock parroted derisively, but Mike just waved him off.

“But Irene’s a lesbian,” he barreled on, to which Irene shrugged, “and Sherlock’s gay and never dates”—Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, Irene snorting loudly—“so we don’t have _anyone_ who can help with heterosexual relationships. And neither of these two are any good at the more sensitive problems. As soon as anyone starts crying-“

Twin groans burst from Irene and Sherlock, and Mike simply stopped, waving a hand between them in demonstration.

John stared across at him, eyebrows climbing. “That’s great and all,” he said, “but I still don’t see how _I_ can be of any help. My longest relationship was four months!”

“What about Mary?” Mike countered, and John flinched, eyes skittering away as his body stiffened. “You dated her for…what, almost a year?”

“I remember how long it was, thanks,” John snapped, and Mike faltered, lips falling closed as he dropped his gaze. John sighed, shaking his head down at his lap. “Mike, look, I- I just don’t think I’d be any good at this,” he said with a shrug, but Mike shook his head.

“You’re _great_ at this!” he cajoled, and John scoffed. “You _are_! You told me _exactly_ what to say to Sarah, remember? That girl from my bio lab?”

“Yeah, but that’s different,” John argued. “That’s just flirting! Anyone can _flirt_!”

“No, they can’t,” Mike said, his voice echoed by Irene, who was shaking her head, and John rounded on her, eyes popping wide in betrayal.

“Sorry, Cap,” she muttered, twitching a shoulder, and, though John couldn’t know it, he was already doomed, nobody who got an Irene nickname ever escaping unscathed, “but I think Mike’s right. I saw you at that awards ceremony. Half the auditorium nearly fainted when you got up on stage, and I’m pretty sure the entire dance team gave you their numbers.”

Sherlock swallowed down a sudden bout of nausea he wasn’t willing to analyze further at the moment, and then glanced at John’s face, the soundless shifting of his mouth a picture of guilt that doubled the sickness.

“I- That- Still, I-”

“John, come on,” Mike begged, hands actually clasping in front of him. “Will you just try it? Just give it a few weeks, just until Christmas. And, if it’s not working out”—he paused, shrugging—“well, we’ll talk about it then.”

John closed his mouth, biting over his lip as he looked down at Mike with a tortured expression. “I- I don’t know, you- You didn’t even ask them,” he urged, waving a hand out at Sherlock and Irene. “I can’t just _barge_ in here when-”

“I don’t mind,” Irene chimed in, raising a hand, and John tipped his head at her exasperatedly before the entire room turned to Sherlock.

He blinked, looking between the faces as he swallowed, and then settled back on John, the blue eyes boring into him. He could see quite plainly that John wanted him to be okay with it, to approve even if he himself was less than keen on the idea, but Sherlock wasn’t so sure. It had been a long time since he had been even remotely interested in anyone, romantic enterprises proving to be more of a distraction than anything else, and, to make matters worse, John didn’t mind his deductions, laughed at his jokes, and was apparently very, _very_ straight. Part of him wanted to keep John as far away as humanly possible, spare himself the torment and perpetual disappointment, but, looking up at the worried lines within the tan skin, Sherlock knew that was already a lost cause. My _god_ , was he in trouble.

“I-I don’t mind,” he murmured, shrugging softly as his eyes fell to the table, but not before catching a glimmer of fond relief in John’s eyes, his stomach doing a wholly inappropriate flip.

“Great!” Mike announced, clapping his hands together. “It’s settled then! We’ll do your introductions tonight on The Roundtable,” he rambled, sliding a sheet of paper across the table to John, who took it, blinking slow and dumbfounded, “and then start you off doing Monday and Wednesday nights, 10 ‘til whenever.” Mike stood up, bright smile on his face as he stepped beside John. “Welcome to the team!” he said, clapping a hand to the man’s shoulder, and John flicked a glance up at him, no expression on his face but shock as Mike left, Molly following briskly behind him.

The blond held the page in his hands, eyes roaming over the words as his lips continued to hover open. “What just happened?” he murmured, looking to Sherlock for some reason, but it was Irene who answered, grinning as she planted her elbows on the table.

“You were just inducted into a cult,” she said matter-of-factly, and John huffed a small laugh, shaking his head down at the page.

“Looks like,” he muttered, frowning as he read down the page. “Wait, The Love Squad?” he read, looking between them, and they both rolled their eyes.

“Mike keeps trying to get us to use that as a moniker,” Sherlock explained with a shrug of dismissal, and Irene nodded.

“Never gonna happen,” she clipped, and John smiled across at her. “You are gonna need a nickname though,” she added, and John’s smile fell to wary.

“A-A nickname?” he echoed, and Irene nodded sagely, mischievous smirk growing on her face.

“Yeah, like how I’m The Woman,” she elaborated, tapping a hand to her chest, “and Sherlock’s The Consulting Detective.”

“Oh,” John murmured, fingers fidgeting on the edges of the page, but Irene charged on.

“What about…Doctor Love!” she suggested, and Sherlock snorted while John blanched, horrified. “You know, because you’re a med student.”

“I- No,” the blond replied, firmly shaking his head, and Sherlock dropped his face as he smiled, Irene glaring at _him_ for some reason.

“Fine,” she snipped, folding her arms as she leaned against the backrest, “how ‘bout…The Captain?”

John was silent a moment, brow pinching as he thought. “Alright,” he answered, shrugging with resignation. “I guess that’s fine. At least then everyone’s a ‘The’.”

“True!” Irene sang, and then stood, leaning across as she extended an arm toward them, palm down. “Hands in,” she commanded, and, with an uncannily synchronized eyebrow raise to each other, Sherlock and John stood, tentatively covering her hand with theirs.

John’s hand was warm over his, tan fingers overlaying the paler ones with painfully delicate pressure, and Sherlock kept his gaze fixed down, terrified how much worse the heat creeping up his neck would become if he met John’s eyes.

 “The ‘The’ Squad on three!” Irene pronounced, and they laughed, Sherlock’s a little stilted. “One-”

John’s fingers twitched as Irene bobbed their hands, pinky sliding in a tingly sweep over the back of Sherlock’s hand, and he swallowed hard, toes curling in his shoes.

“-two-”

John’s hand moved yet again, his hold tightening a little around Sherlock’s fingers, and, taken aback enough to be stupid, Sherlock looked up, John’s eyes flicking to his in the same moment, and Sherlock felt his chest abruptly constrict as the blue roved over his face, gaze bright and lingering on the collar of his navy shirt.

“-three, THE ‘THE’ SQUAD!” Irene exclaimed, their hands flying apart, and the only thing that even remotely comforted Sherlock was that John’s voice quavered a little bit too.

*****

Sherlock sat sidelong in his leather chair by the fire, feet dangling toward the flames as he twirled his violin bow in his hands, the instrument sitting abandoned on the floor beside him.

“Well, he might just be nervous.” John’s voice drifted up from Sherlock’s computer where it rested on his stomach, livestreaming the radio broadcast. “Meeting the parents is a big deal, after all.”

It had been over a week since John had joined the group, and, by all accounts, he’d been a rousing success. The women liked having someone simultaneously sympathetic and knowledgeable, looking to John as something of a peek inside the mind of their own men, and the men enjoyed having someone they felt could understand where they were coming from. Not that John was taking any callers away from him or Irene at all, all of them having their own niches in which they were needed, but John definitely got more than they did, neither he or Irene having any patience for people who mostly just wanted to whine. He had also been a great addition to The Roundtable, taking over whenever any of the people who called in to talk to all three of them got too emotional.

Sherlock couldn’t deny at least a faint understanding as to why John was so popular, he himself tuning in for the Monday and Wednesday broadcasts. There was something about his voice, soft but sure, that lent itself to being trusted, told you your secrets were safe within its gravelly grasp, John’s throat not quite yet adjusted to all the talking. And Sherlock would just close his eyes, imagining exactly the way John’s eyes wrinkled whenever he laughed, picturing the furrow beneath his brows when he hummed in thought, and it was almost real, almost a world where John finally caught him staring and smiled.

He sighed, blinking his eyes at the fire-lit ceiling, orange whips lashing across the plaster.

He’d done pretty well, all things considered, lasting at least half of that first night before falling arse-over-tits. He liked to think that was a record when it came to John Watson, because it was simply impossible _not_ to fancy him so much it twisted your heart when you looked at him. What chance did he have, sitting there watching as John stumbled through some of Irene’s more sensitive introductory questions, cheeks flaming as he deftly dodged revealing his favorite sexual position? Or the way he swallowed when he was about to talk, eyebrows wrinkling in a momentary frown? Sherlock was so far gone now, he could no longer see the shore, couldn’t even remember what the shore _looked_ like, and it didn’t help that John was—no doubt unconsciously—making it worse.

They’d all exchanged numbers that first night to be able to keep in touch if anything were to come up with any of them, and, starting after the second solo session John had done, they’d started texting. John did Wednesday nights, and Sherlock did Thursdays, so, when John had asked him to check if he’d left his rugby jacket at the studio, it had seemed innocent enough, communication borne out of necessity and convenience, nothing more. The rugby jacket hadn’t been there, and John would eventually find it in his car, but, when Sherlock had told him he didn’t see it, John had rather unnecessarily explained he needed it for a game that night, and had then casually invited Sherlock to come watch.

Sherlock had stared at his mobile for a whole three minutes before responding with an excuse and a no, and John hadn’t seem particularly torn up about it, but the exchange had rattled Sherlock. He couldn’t go getting close to people, especially rugby captains with crystal blue eyes and brilliant grins that were bound to distract him from his cases, and then there was the insurmountable fact that John was straight, any leeway Sherlock gave his ridiculous crush inevitably reaping only heartbreak, because, apparently, he had one of those now, and it hammered harder and harder with every added second spent in the company of John Watson.

“Did he explicitly say he didn’t _want_ to go back home with you for Christmas?” John asked, and Sherlock, for at least the twentieth time, hovered his finger over the touchpad, screaming at himself to just close the damn tab and end this masochistic mess already.

“Well, no,” the female caller replied, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, “but he keeps saying he needs to start preparing for his thesis next semester.”

“ _Is_ his thesis next semester?” John asked, and Sherlock smiled, shaking his head, John’s rising eyebrow practically audible.

“Yeah, but he’s not actually working on it; he’s just using it as an excuse.”

“Maybe, but, either way, I think you just need to talk to him,” John replied, and Sherlock could see him shrugging a shoulder, leaning forward on his elbows toward the microphone. “It might be that he’s nervous and using the thesis as an excuse, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he doesn’t _want_ to go. He may just need a little reassurance, I mean, meeting the parents is hard enough, but at _Christmas_? Adds a whole new layer of pressure, ya know?”

The girl was silent for a moment, a slight shuffling coming across the line. “Yeah, I-I guess that makes sense,” she finally murmured, and John seized the opportunity to escape.

“Talk to him,” he said, tone terminating the conversation, “and, if it turns out he really _doesn’t_ wanna meet your family, well, don’t keep him around for New Year’s. Thanks for calling in, Beth,” he added over the girl’s laughter, and then abruptly cut the call off to silence. “Now we have Ryan! Ryan, how are you tonight?”

“Um, alright, I guess,” a young man murmured, and Sherlock’s eyes instinctively twitched narrow, the nauseous feeling in his gut always a little more poignant when John talked to men.

“Staying warm?” John asked, the recent cold snap just about all the news was talking about tonight as snow whirled past the windows outside, but still, to Sherlock, it sounded like flirting, and he scowled, getting up from his chair and placing the laptop on the seat as Ryan chuckled.

“Yeah. Well, trying anyway.”

“Good, good. So,” John chirped, hands undoubtedly folding as they perched on the tabletop, and Sherlock cursed himself for knowing that as he made his way toward the kitchen, “what’s on your mind?”

“Well, I- See, the thing is- There’s this girl.”

John chuckled. “Isn’t there always? So is this a girlfriend girl, or a maybe-girlfriend girl?”

“A maybe, I guess, but that’s not really the problem.”

“Oh?” John pressed, and Sherlock frowned, turning away from the fridge while ‘letting all the cold out’, as Mrs. Hudson was fond of berating him for.

“No, I- I know this isn’t really your thing, exactly, but- Well, there’s also…a guy.”

“Oh,” John said, and Sherlock tilted his head, confused by the nonchalance of the tone.

“And I know- I know you don’t really-”

“No, no, I- Sorry, I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but it’s one of things, ya know, where so many people already know that you forget it’s not written on your forehead or something. I’m bisexual.”

Sherlock choked on his own saliva, stumbling forward on faltering knees as he caught himself on a chair, the wood scraping loudly against the linoleum as he coughed.

“Sherlock?” came Mrs. Hudson’s voice from downstairs. “Sherlock, are you-”

“Fine!” he called, clearing his throat, though he wasn’t sure he was fine at all, the room suddenly much too hot for him. “I’m fine!”

“So, what exactly is the problem you’re having?” John asked, completely unperturbed while Sherlock’s heart appeared permanently lodged in his throat.

“Are you sure?” Mrs. Hudson beckoned again, and Sherlock stomped into the living room, hissing down toward the stairs.

“Of course I’m sure, now will you be _quiet_!” he snarled, and the old woman muttered something under her breath, her slippers flapping against the steps as she retreated.

“I- Well, I’ve never- I always thought I was straight,” Ryan continued, John humming thoughtfully. “And the girl, she’s in one of my classes, and we’ve been flirting for a while now, but then I met this guy who lives down the hall from me, and I just…”

“Feel like you’re losing your mind?” John offered, and Ryan chuckled.

“Yeah, a bit,” he muttered, and John huffed a small laugh of commiseration.

“It is really hard to wrap your mind around it at first, that’s for sure,” John said, and Sherlock drew closer, perching on the arm of his chair as he looked down at the laptop. “Me, I was in…year ten? Something like that. And, in all honesty, it took me a solid four months to figure out what was going on, so you’re already miles ahead on that front.”

Ryan chuckled, and Sherlock, in spite of himself, smiled, knowing John would be too.

“So, is the issue here about your attraction to a man, or that you don’t know who you like more?”

“Second one,” Ryan answered, and John hummed. “Well, maybe a bit of both. It’s just hard to figure out who I like more when I’m still kinda confused about it all, ya know?”

“Absolutely,” John assured, instantly comforting. “Figuring out how you feel about two people is hard enough under the best of circumstances, let alone adding in an identity crisis,” he muttered, and Ryan laughed. “I suppose you just have to, as best you can, take gender out of it. Like, for me- I dunno, I guess I just thought, if I’m attracted to someone, and they happen to be a man…well, is that really a good enough reason to write them off? Is the label of my sexuality really that important to me? I mean, finding the right person is sort of a needle in a haystack situation anyway, why would you wanna cut your chances in half right off the bat, ya know?” he asked, and Ryan murmured agreeably. “I mean, nothing ever happened with that guy in year ten, and, on the whole, I have dated more women than men, but I like to think I’m at least _open_ to it now. Less insecure and all that. So, if you can take him being a man out of the equation, who do you like more?”

“I-I dunno,” Ryan muttered, and Sherlock shook his head down at the laptop, riveted as well as frustrated. “That’s- I mean I have a lot in common with both of them, and they’re both a lot of fun, I just can’t- I don’t know how to know for sure.”

“Well, you can’t really,” John replied offhandedly, “but you can get pretty damn close. I always- And it’s a little weird, but I have a good reason, so, bear with me,” he rambled, and Ryan chuckled. “I have this thing with enclosed spaces. I wouldn’t quite say claustrophobia, because I know people with that who are _much_ worse off than I am, but I just- I don’t like them, okay? They freak me out.”

Sherlock chuckled, glaring at the screen when Ryan laughed as well.

“So, when _I’m_ trying to figure out if I like someone, like _really_ like them, I always try to imagine how they’d react if we ever got stuck in a lift,” John muttered, half chuckling even at himself. “Because, see, I’m gonna be a mess!” he continued over Ryan’s laughter. “And I can’t have another Jeanette Parker—sorry, Jeanette, you were mostly nice, and I do still feel bad for getting you just Haribo for your birthday—cornering me in the closet during a _definitely_ rigged round of spin-the-bottle and _refusing_ to let me out until I kissed her. I can’t do it! I just can’t!”

Ryan was laughing heartily now, and Sherlock lifted the backs of his fingers to his lips, his own puffs of laughter hissing warm through the cracks.

“So, I think about that,” John continued. “I think about if they’d make fun of me, or roll their eyes and tell me to suck it up. So, I suppose, my advice for you is to think about something that makes you uncomfortable, something you’d be afraid to do…and imagine who you’d want at your side.”

Silence for a moment, and then a soft sound of understanding from Ryan, something between a chuckle and a hum.

“Yeah, that…that actually makes a lot of sense,” the man murmured, and Sherlock swallowed, staunchly refusing to accept he was even remotely moved by the sentiment. “Thanks, I- That really helps a lot.”

“Sure thing!” John chirped. “That’s what I’m here for! Well, good luck to you, Ryan! Fingers crossed for a Christmas miracle, eh?”

Ryan laughed. “Yeah, thanks,” he replied, and then the call disconnected.

“Alright, up next we have Mark! What’s got you calling in on this cold, dark winter’s night?”

“Hi, I- Well, I think my boyfriend might be cheating on me,” the young man said, notably nervous, and John hummed sympathetically.

“Cheating, huh?” he remarked. “Why would you say that?”

“I dunno, it’s just- Well, a lot of little things, really,” Mark began hesitantly. “He’s been gone a lot. Keeps saying he has to meet with a professor about a project, but then, when I talked to a mutual friend who’s in that class with him, he said they’re not even doing a project right now.”

“Hmm,” John murmured, a soft click as he swallowed. “You know, I gotta say, cheating isn’t really my forte, I- Actually, you know what,” he added brightly, and Sherlock tilted his head, puzzled, “can you hold on a second? I-I think I might try and call in reinforcements.”

“Alright,” Mark chuckled.

“Great,” John said, his voice fading somewhat as he moved away from the microphone. “Just one second.”

The radio quieted, John clearly putting his microphone on mute, and Sherlock blinked down at the screen, wondering what he could possibly be doing when his mobile went off.

He turned, watching the plastic buzz across the table, his heart rattling his ear drums as he tentatively stretched out a hand, pulling the mobile up to his face. One of the station lines blinked across the screen, and, with a steadying breath he hoped prevented his voice from squeaking, he answered.

“Hello?” he said, feigning ignorance.

“Sherlock?” John asked, though he didn’t wait for an answer. “Hey, glad I caught you! Listen, I need a weird favor. I’m at the station, and I’ve got this guy on the line who thinks his boyfriend’s cheating on him, and you’re _way_ better at that sort of thing than I am, so…well, you think I can patch you through for a minute?”

“I- John, I don’t think-”

“Please?” John interjected, and Sherlock closed his eyes, fingers tightening on the plastic casing.

“Fine,” he grumbled, helpless to do anything else, “but not for very long. I have-”

“And we’re back!” John’s voice sang, coming through the mobile and the laptop now, and Sherlock glared down at the screen, a pointless display of displeasure. “Sorry about that, but I’ve called in the cavalry! Sherlock Holmes to save the day!”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Sherlock muttered, and Mark chuckled as John scoffed.

“Nonsense, you’re as clever as they come. So, Mark, why don’t you tell Sherlock what you told me,” John said, and, though Mark did explain, Sherlock wasn’t listening, having both already heard and being a bit distracted by John calling him clever. John. Clever. _Him_!

Eventually, however, Mark stopped talking and Sherlock took that as his cue to respond. “What did you see when you followed him?” he asked, answered by a beat of silence.

“I- What?” Mark stammered, voice trembling a bit, and Sherlock smirked down at the phone.

“You said you spoke to a mutual friend in the same class. It seems unlikely they would offer the information about the project without being prompted somehow, so you’re clearly investigating, trying to figure out where exactly he’s going on those errands you say he’s constantly leaving on. You’re also quite comfortable saying you think he’s cheating, more resigned than anything, as if you’ve had some time to adjust, so, if you’re looking for advice on what to do _next_ , it seems easier if you simply tell us what you saw when you followed him.” Sherlock could practically hear the two of them blinking, mouths undoubtedly dropped open, but he waited, letting the silence roll on until Mark began floundering around syllables.

“I- I only- It was just the once,” he muttered urgently, and Sherlock’s mouth lifted in smug satisfaction. “And I didn’t really mean to. He just told me he’d be on campus, but the location on his Facebook message said he was downtown, so I thought I’d-”

“You don’t have to make excuses,” Sherlock interjected, shaking his head. “With that much cause to be suspicious, anyone would have done the same thing, no matter how much they insist otherwise. So, what did you see?”

“I- Well, he was with his professor,” Mark answered bitterly. “But they were at a coffee shop. And there weren’t any papers or anything on the table, so I don’t think they were-”

“Where were they sitting?” Sherlock interrupted again, growing impatient.

“What?” Mark muttered, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, eternally perplexed why people asked for his expertise in the first place if they were going to question him every step of the way. “Why does that-”

“It matters. Where were they sitting?”

“The corner,” Mark answered, surprisingly not irritable, and Sherlock tipped his head, having to give the man silent points for that. “They were sitting in the corner.”

“At a table?” Sherlock pressed, and the silence was a near physical manifestation of the man shaking his head.

“No, not really. I mean, there was a table, but they were sitting in the armchairs.”

“And how old’s the professor?”

“Um, I don’t know. Forties?”

“When did his suspicious behavior start?”

“About a month ago.”

“Well,” Sherlock clipped, standing up from the arm of his chair as he began to pace around the room, “I’m afraid whether or not your boyfriend is cheating depends on your definition.”

“What do you mean?”

“Midterm grades came out a little over a month ago,” Sherlock explained, running over the well-worn groove in the carpet. “He must have done poorly, and has since tried to ‘butter up’ the professor, so to speak. Sitting in the corner shows a certain degree of intimacy, but they were at a coffee shop, hardly the type of place one would meet with someone whom they were carrying on a forbidden relationship with, as a professor to a current student is. Your boyfriend is undoubtedly trying to flatter a significantly older man with his attentions in order to get a better grade on the final, so, if you conscribe to the concept of emotional cheating, he most assuredly is. However, given the professor’s age and aforementioned points, it’s unlikely there’s any physical component to the relationship, so, if that’s your definition, then he’s in the clear.”

The usual stunned silence, and then, in a complete departure from the norm…

“Wow,” John breathed, and Sherlock stopped dead on the carpet, sure he was hallucinating. “That’s- That’s _amazing_! That’s really-” He halted, seeming to remember they weren’t alone. “Well, Mark,” he said, voice growing official once more as he cleared his throat, “there ya have it. So, what do you think? Where do you fall on that cheating issue?”

“I- I don’t know,” Mark murmured, and listening to John’s show must have broken him somehow, fried some of his internal circuits, because he _felt_ a brief flicker of pain across his chest at the anguish in Mark’s voice.

Dammit, John Watson!

“I- Is it weird that I wish he had told me? That I wouldn’t be so upset if he’d just _said_ he was gonna be flirting with his professor to boost his grade?”

“However you feel is however you feel,” John validated, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, “but, if he _had_ told you, what would you have said?”

A brief pause, and then Mark sniffed derisively. “Probably would’ve told him to go fuck himself.”

“As you well should,” Sherlock muttered, Mark starting to laugh before John cut him off.

“Well, okay, but, just to play devil’s advocate for a second,” the blond said, “finals make people do a lot of crazy things. Yesterday I passed a guy making snow angels in nothing but pants and a scarf, I mean, we’re all half mad right now.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock allowed, “but we’re not all making doe-eyes at our professors.”

“True,” John conceded, “but maybe he has a reason. I can’t imagine what it could be, but- Well, you said it’s not physical. He hasn’t _really_ crossed the line yet.”

“Yes, exactly,” Sherlock countered. “ _Yet_ , he hasn’t crossed it _yet,_ but there are infinitely more stressful things than finals out there. Imagine what he’d do to get a _job_!”

“We can’t _know_ that though,” John defended, The Captain apparently determined to go down with his ship. “Not unless they talk. Maybe, Mark, you should ask him about it. Try to talk it out.”

“So, what?” Sherlock muttered mockingly. “He can buy a bit more time before doing something even worse? People hide things; they don’t _change_ them!”

“They can sometimes,” John argued, idealistic as ever, and Sherlock groaned. “No, they can! ‘Once a cheater, always a cheater’ isn’t true every time. Sometimes people just need a second chance.”

Sherlock paused, frowning down at the floor as he sped through an analysis of John’s voice. “Why would you say that?” he asked, befuddled. “It clearly didn’t work out for you, so why-”

“How do you- Ya know what, nevermind, stupid question,” John snapped, and, for a second, Sherlock’s entire body froze over, whatever tentative hope he’d started to build collapsing. “Actually, though, he’s right,” the man said suddenly, and Sherlock nearly dropped the phone. “I did give a girl a second chance once, and she cheated on me again within the month, so, the hell with what I said, dump the bastard.”

Mark laughed, Sherlock himself startled into a small breath of a chuckle.

“We all deserve better than someone who will flirt with a man who could be his _father_ for a grade,” John continued, and Sherlock laughed properly. “Well, Mark, I hope we’ve helped. Or at least entertained,” John said, somewhat apologetic, but Mark just laughed.

“Yeah, you did,” he assured, and Sherlock smiled, a small glow of pride heating in his chest. “You two make a pretty good team.”

Sherlock chuckled, John right along with him. “I suppose every silver lining needs a cloud,” he remarked, and John laughed, bright and brilliant, pulling a smile up onto Sherlock’s mouth.

“Well, there’s my Christmas miracle!” he announced. “A compliment from Sherlock Holmes! God bless us, everyone! And good luck, mate,” he added, tone dipping into sincere. “Don’t forget: Throwing his clothes out the window? Always a classic.”

Mark laughed, and John let it drag on a bit before ending the call, though he kept Sherlock on the line as he turned once again to the microphone.

“There are a lot of lights flashing at me right now, but, unfortunately, I am required to play a certain amount of _music_ on here as well—funny that. Stick around though, because I’ll be right back to answer all your questions to the best of my limited ability! That is, if you survive, because, coming to us from across the pond, we’ve got N’ Sync’s “All I Want Is You This Christmas”. _God_ , that makes me feel old!” he added, his voice fading into the music, playing both from Sherlock’s laptop and into his ear, and then John muted it, his voice alone breaking through from the  mobile. “Sorry about that,” he said, soft with repentance. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

Sherlock shrugged, and then, realizing John couldn’t see him, made a vaguely noncommittal sound in his throat instead.

John chuckled, and then fell silent. “Is that- Are you listening to the show?”

Sherlock’s eyes shot wide, stomach leaping against his ribs. “What?” he muttered, hastily rushing over to mute his laptop. “No! Why would I-”

“You are!” John exclaimed, laughing with smug triumph. “I can hear the music!”

“Well then you’re clearly imagining things,” Sherlock snapped, but John just chuckled.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m an _excellent_ liar.”

“Not right now,” John countered, and Sherlock fell silent, that point fair enough. “Were you listening before too? Before I called?”

Sherlock hesitated, twisting his fingers into the cuffs of his shirt. “I- It might have been on while I worked.”

“Oh, it might’ve been on while you worked?” John needled, and then chuckled, almost as if he could feel Sherlock glaring at him. “So, what were you working on?” he asked, and Sherlock slowly lowered his laptop to the ground as he settled into his chair. “What _does_ Sherlock Holmes do when he’s not solving cases for the lovelorn?”

Sherlock chuckled, sliding a nearly forgotten file from the table behind him. “Actually,” he murmured, flicking it open, “I just solve other cases. I sort of have a…standing relationship with Scotland Yard. Well, an inspector there, at least.”

“You have a _relationship_ with a-”

“What? No!” Sherlock blustered, shaking his head violently, John laughing in his ear. “Not a _relationship_ relationship, a _work_ relationship! He sends me stuff sometimes, cases he wants me to take a look at. That’s actually why Irene thought of me for the radio,” he added with a shrug, and then blinked, momentarily startling himself at how easily all of this was rolling off his tongue.

“What kind of cases?” John asked, and Sherlock hesitated, biting his lip, this being the hard part, but then John continued. “Like, on a scale of petty theft to serial killers?”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, eyes staring blankly out at the carpet in front of him.

“Sherlock?”

“Yeah, um, sorry, I-” he stammered, swallowing as he gathered himself. “Mostly murders,” he replied, and John just hummed, Sherlock clearly having been pulled into an alternate universe at some point.

Suddenly, there was a loud squawk on the line, and identical sounds of shocked anguish burst from him and John.

“Sorry, sorry!” Molly’s voice came on, and Sherlock tentatively pressed the phone back to his ear. “I keep telling Mike to get someone in here to fix that. Hey, John, is Sherlock still on the line?”

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped, “and he’s now also deaf, in case you were wondering.”

“Good,” Molly chirped, and John laughed. “I mean, not that you’re deaf, because that wouldn’t be good. Not that there’s anything _wrong_ with-”

“Molly,” Sherlock prompted, and the girl cleared her throat.

“Right, um, the next caller, she-she wants to talk to both of you. If that’s okay,” she said, and Sherlock tilted his head in confusion.

“Both of us?” he muttered. “Why would she-”

“You heard what Mark said,” John interjected. “We make a good team. And, besides,” he added, the grin screaming through the syllables, “every silver lining needs a cloud.”

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly even as his neck burned. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?” he muttered miserably, and John cackled.

“Nope!” he sang. “I’m thinking of getting it stitched on pillows. Or tattooed! I’ll get ‘silver lining’ and you can get ‘cloud’. It’s like the adult version of best friends necklaces.”

“We’d have to be best friends first,” Sherlock replied, and John chuckled softly.

“Give me time, Sherlock,” he mused. “Give me time.”

Sherlock bit his lip, unable to entirely quell the grin trying to break across his face, and, thankfully, John broke the silence, Sherlock momentarily incapable.

“So, whadya say?” the blond cajoled, his optimism contagious. “Up for another round? Or do you wanna go back to just listening again?”

“Ha ha,” Sherlock mocked tonelessly, and John laughed. “I suppose I have time for another one,” he murmured, John’s smile bursting into his mind in crystal clear Technicolor.

“Well, alright then,” he answered softly, and Sherlock unmuted his laptop to hear the music fading out. “And we’re back! And, apparently, you lot can’t get enough of Sherlock on Tuesdays and Thursdays, because we’ve got special requests coming in left and right! So, Claire, what problem are you having that Sherlock and I can disagree on?”

The girl began talking, John taking on the role of active listener, making all the appropriate sounds of sympathy and surprise, and Sherlock settled back into his chair, a wistful smile on his face as he watched the snow drift white past his window.

*****

John yawned, lifting the back of his hand to his mouth. “This is your fault, you know,” he drawled, flicking a lazy hand at Sherlock.

“Me?” Sherlock scoffed. “You’re the one who called me _again_ last night! You could’ve just told them it was a one-time thing, or that I was unavailable or something.”

“Are you?” John asked, turning his chair around to face him, eyebrow rising, and Sherlock tilted his head.

“Am I what?” he replied, frowning, and John grinned, but, before Sherlock could press any further, the door swung open.

“There’s my two favorite employees!” Mike sang, arms stretched wide as he strode briskly toward them, and John and Sherlock shuffled their chairs back in unison. Mike stopped, smiling between them as he dropped his hands. “How did you guys do it?” he asked, and John turned to give Sherlock a puzzled look over his shoulder, which Sherlock returned with a shrug.

“Do what?” John asked, and Mike laughed.

“Figure it out!” he pressed, moving to drop into his chair at the head of the oval table. “Our ratings have _skyrocketed_ since you two started doing the show together!”

“It’s only been twice,” Sherlock reminded, folding his arms, “and we’re still not a real radio station. We don’t have _ratings_.”

“Well, no,” Mike muttered, tipping his head, “but we’re getting _way_ more people tuning in than the morning team, and that’s what matters!”

“Really?” John said drily. “Two weeks before Christmas and _that’s_ what matters?”

“Oh, please,” Mike scoffed, waving a hand at him, “you put a dead fish in Sam Lincoln’s car on his _birthday_.”

“I didn’t know that until after!” John spouted, and Sherlock laughed, John turning to glare at him as he clutched at his ribs.

“Regardless,” Mike continued, folding his hands on the table, “we’re getting more calls than we ever did. You two are becoming the hottest ticket in town!”

“When did we go through a wormhole to the ‘40s?” Sherlock mocked, lifting a brow, and John laughed, Mike simply rolling his eyes at the both of them.

“The _point_ is,” he clipped, and they quieted, “that you two are popular. Together.” He looked pointedly between them, and Sherlock could see by the half of John’s face angled toward him that they were both equally confused. Mike sighed, scraping an exasperated hand down his face. “I’m thinking we should combine your shows,” he said, and Sherlock startled, that one catching him off-guard. “Make it maybe three nights a week of the two of you instead of two each. I’ve looked over your schedules,” he continued, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket, “and it looks like Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday would work best.” He lifted his face, smiling brightly at the both of them, and it was a good thing John had the wherewithal to reply, because Sherlock was still a bit catatonic.

“You’re serious?” he asked, and Mike nodded, still grinning. “So we’d be- We’d be going on tonight, you’re saying?” He pointed down at the table, as if to illustrate the point, the both of them only there because Mike said he wanted to talk about something, which was apparently always going to be a grand reveal.

“Mhmm,” Mike affirmed, smile permanently stuck to his face, and John dropped his hands.

“But that’s- That’s insane!” he spluttered, head shaking. “We haven’t- We’ve only talked on the phone! Who knows if it will even _work_!”

“Well, that’s what tonight’s for,” Mike chirped, standing once more. “A trial run, if you will.”

“But-But-” John stammered, and then spun around on his chair to Sherlock. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” he blustered, and Sherlock, having something of an out-of-body experience, shrugged.

More time with no-longer-straight John? He wasn’t exactly _opposed_.

“I don’t mind,” he replied, and John’s mouth dropped open.

“Well, I guess that’s settled!” Mike pronounced, clapping his hands together before making for the door. “You’re on in twenty. I had Irene make the announcement last night, so there should be some callers waiting for you. Molly’s babysitting her cousins tonight, so you’ll have to run everything yourselves. You remember how to do that, right, Sherlock?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded, John still gaping between them.

“Irene- But how did you know we’d-”

“Call it a hunch,” Mike interrupted, casting John a pointed look Sherlock missed the meaning of, but John seemed to catch it, spine stiffening as his neck flushed. “See you guys Tuesday!” he bade, waving a hand, and Sherlock returned the gesture with a bob of his head before getting up, moving to one of the shelves against the wall to get out the necessary equipment.

“Bloody hell,” John breathed, running a hand back through his hair before turning to Sherlock, “is he always like that?”

“How should I know?” Sherlock replied, shrugging. “You’re on the rugby team with him. I only know him from here.”

“But is he always like that here?” the blond pressed, and Sherlock bobbed his head.

“Pretty much,” he replied, chuckling as John shook his head. “Now,” he pronounced, holding up two microphones, “do you want the one with the dent, or the one you can only talk into the left of?”

John laughed, looking between them. “Oh, gimme the dent,” he muttered, but he was smiling, and, as Sherlock passed him the instrument, he couldn’t help but smile back.

*****

“I just don’t know how to say it, ya know?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his neck folding back over the chair, and then snapping back up as John kicked him hard in the ankle. ‘What?’ he mouthed, lifting his hands in an exaggerated shrug, and John shook his head in scolding.

“Straightforward is always the best policy with things like this,” John said, turning back to the microphone halfway through. “If the guy’s not your type, he’s not your type.”

“Yeah, but how do I _tell him_ that?”

John turned a pleading look to Sherlock, who sighed, leaning forward to his microphone.

“Just tell him he’s not your type,” he said, shrugging. “And then, if he gets angry about it, tell him that’s why.”

The girl made a small sound of surprised amusement, and John smiled across at him.

“Well, whadya think, Emily?” he asked, one elbow lifting to rest on the table as he propped up his head with a palm. “Does that about cover it?”

“Yeah, thanks,” she said, sounding a little more stable than she had at the start of the call.

“Alright then, thanks for phoning in! We’re gonna take another short break, toss some music your way, but stick around, because we’ll be right back to answer more of these calls lighting up the control panel in front of me.” John clicked the mute button, and then started the next round of songs, sighing heavily as he flopped back into his chair. “What is it with everyone needing advice on letting someone down easy tonight?” he sighed, and Sherlock chuckled, mirroring John’s position as he stared up at the ceiling.

“I dunno,” he shrugged, “tis the season?”

John laughed, shaking his head, as Sherlock smiled across at him, watching him from the corner of his eye.

This was the third show they’d done together, the calls piling up more and more with each day closer to the holidays, and they were already exhausted. It was Thursday the 18th today, and, apparently, the theme was breakups and letdowns, everyone seemingly in a hurry to lock down a significant other—or free themselves up for another one—before the holidays. It was pulling on every single one of Sherlock’s nerves, and John was taking it with only slightly more aplomb, the two of them having to regularly trade off when someone was about to explode after explaining the same concept ten times.

Of course, interspersed with all the hair-pulling and Sherlock’s dramatic mimes of various methods of suicide while the callers droned on and on, John shaking with his effort not to laugh, there were bright spots, namely all the time he got to spend with John. They always stayed much later than they needed to, the radio broadcast usually ending at least an hour before they left. The rest of the time, they would just talk, and they talked about everything—finals to families to favorite kind of cheese—and Sherlock, though he dared not even _think_ it without knocking on wood, was beginning to suspect he wasn’t entirely alone in his crush.

John was far too subtle for him to be sure, but he thought he saw something on occasion, a small glimmer of reciprocation when they stared a little too long or sat a little too close, and Sherlock buzzed with the thrill of it, his skin singing whenever their legs innocently brushed under the table. He wanted to ask John, to demand an explanation, require him to put together a pamphlet or visual presentation of what exactly he thought he was doing smiling at Sherlock like that, but then, if he were wrong… Well, that was a shame he wasn’t willing to risk.

“I’m probably the worst one to be giving advice on that, to be honest,” John murmured, and Sherlock rolled his head toward him, eyebrow lifting. “I’m terrible at letting people down, always have been.”

“Really?” Sherlock pressed, sitting up to peer curiously across at the man. “Is that why you go on so many dates?” he added, remembering what Mike had said those weeks ago.

“Hey, not _so_ many!” John contested, flinging a hand out at Sherlock, which missed by a longshot. “I haven’t dated anyone since I started here. Haven’t had the time, really, but… Well, you’re probably right,” he added with a shrug, toes pressing into the carpet as he twisted his chair side-to-side. “If anyone had asked, I probably would’ve gone. I can’t say no! Somebody asks me for coffee, and I just- I feel like I have to, I dunno.”

“Even if they’re not your _type_ ,” Sherlock teased, waving a hand at the microphone, and John laughed, nodding.

“Yeah, seems like. What about you?” John asked, sitting upright as he folded his arms atop the table. “All this time we spend talking about other people’s love lives, and I don’t know anything about yours.”

Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head down at the table. “Not much to tell. Nothing to tell, in fact,” he answered, bobbing a shoulder, but John didn’t appear contented, brow furrowing as he tilted his head. “I don’t- Relationships are not exactly…my area.”

“What does that mean?” John chuckled, shaking his head. “Like you’re not good at them, you don’t want them, what?”

“I-I don’t know,” Sherlock murmured, fingers twisting together in his lap. “I suppose I just- I dunno.” He turned, eyes staring unfocused at the doorway. “Nobody- Well, I guess I’ve never been the right type,” he said, looking back with a frail smile he hoped John would pretend to buy.

No such luck, however, and blue eyes glittered as they roved over his face, soft with concern he neither needed nor wanted.

Sherlock sighed, dropping his gaze once again. “Look, John, can we just-”

“No,” John interjected, his voice suddenly closer, and Sherlock turned, finding the boy’s chair pulled up right beside him. “Sherlock, you- There’s no reason anyone wouldn’t like you,” he urged, smiling softly, one of his trainers pressing so lightly against Sherlock’s shoe, he could almost have convinced himself it was an accident. “I’m sure you’re somebody’s type. Probably a lot of people’s type, actually,” he added, grinning, and Sherlock laughed. “Seriously, it’s lucky this is just a radio show and people can’t see you. Otherwise, we’d have to smuggle you out the back every night. Lines for miles.”

Sherlock laughed, turning his head away as he blushed, and John leaned forward, swatting at his arm in a touch that lingered a second too long, a hint too soft, and Sherlock’s laugh faded, eyes blinking down at the tan fingers as they pulled away.

“I am serious, though,” John murmured, hands folding in his lap as he looked up at Sherlock through his lashes. “About…all of that,” he added with a rattle of a shrug, a tremulous smile on his lips as he held Sherlock’s gaze, and Sherlock frowned, head slowly tilting as he tried to understand the fear in John’s eyes.

The songs came to an end, and John pulled away, the wheels of his chair rolling across the carpet as he returned to his mic, the air cooling with his absence.

“How many more of these you reckon we have to do before we can reasonably call it a night?” he said, hand hovering over the blinking red lights.

Sherlock glanced at the clock on the wall. “Three?” he offered with a shrug, and John smiled.

“Three it is,” he agreed with a nod, and Sherlock chuckled, turning to his mic just as John hit the mute button.

By unspoken agreement, they were quick about it, exchanging glances here and there as they psychically decided when to interject, when to wrap it up. John was one of those people who had an extremely open face, his mind written clearly in the creases of his brow and twitches of his lips, but, contrary to most, he didn’t seem to object to Sherlock being able to read him like a book. In fact, he almost seemed impatient when Sherlock didn’t do it right away, when he feigned confusion out of politeness when John would shoot him a pointed look, but John would just roll his eyes, giving him the unamused look of someone who clearly wasn’t fooled, and Sherlock would comply, rattling off the deduction and whisking the caller off the phone.

With music breaks, they were wrapping up in just over an hour, John bidding the listeners goodnight with the promise of returning on Tuesday, and then sighed heavily, melting back into his chair as he flicked off the console.

“We should get paid for this,” he muttered, and Sherlock laughed, rising from his chair as he gathered up his microphone. John followed, carrying his own as they stowed them away in the cupboard, and they did the bare minimum of tidying before heading toward the door, pulling their winter gear from the hooks. “Why do you think they call?” John asked quite suddenly as he tugged at the zipper of his jacket, and Sherlock frowned, shooting a sidelong glance up at him as he bent to grab his shoulder bag from the floor. “The people that call in to talk to us. Why do you think they do it? I mean, it’s kind of strange, isn’t it? Airing your love life out there for the entire world?”

“Stranger than us responding?” Sherlock countered, and John chuckled, slipping his gloves on.

“Well, no, I guess not,” he answered with a shrug, “but, I mean- Why would they care what we think? What do we know about love?”

Sherlock’s hands paused on the collar of his coat, brow furrowing at the door in consideration. “I suppose, sometimes, they just want someone to listen,” he answered, wriggling on his soft leather gloves. “That, or they’re grossly misinformed as to our qualifications.”

John laughed, throwing his head back as he followed Sherlock out the door. “Yeah, maybe,” he conceded, moving up to Sherlock’s side as they headed toward the lift. “Maybe we should set them straight.”

“What, and ruin our glowing reputations?” Sherlock gasped in mock affront, pushing the call button as John chuckled, leaning against the wall beside it. “And, besides,” he added, shuffling inside the lift as the doors swept open with a _ding_ , “we’re not entirely unqualified. You, at least, must know something about love.”

“Why would you say that?” John asked, crossing his ankles as he pressed his spine back against the wall of the lift. “I mean, why me and not you?”

Sherlock laughed, hands slipping into his pockets as he pushed himself into the corner, watching the numbers roll down. “Really?” he mocked, raising an eyebrow at the man. “You’re seriously asking me that? John, I solve _murders_ in my spare time.”

“So?” John muttered, rattling his head as he frowned. “That’s kind of incredibly hot,” he said, like it was nothing, as obvious a truth as gravity, and Sherlock just stared at him, mouth gaping open. John’s lips closed, his eyes twitching wide with sudden terror as a swallow moved down his throat, and then he disappeared, the lift flickering in and out of darkness as it shuddered to a groaning stop.

The emergency lights came on, a weak greenish glow over the glittering metal walls. “Not again,” Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes as he leaned his head back against the cool surface.

“A-Again?” John stammered from his left, and Sherlock turned toward him. “What-What do you mean again?” John’s hands were tight on the banister running around the interior of the lift, his jaw clenched as he looked around, eyes wide, and Sherlock suddenly remembered.

“It does this sometimes,” he replied, slow and calm, an attempt at subtle reassurance. “Especially during storms. The power just…goes out for a bit. It’ll come back on in a few minutes.”

“Minutes?” John squeaked, foot beginning to quiver in a frantic tap against the floor. “How many minutes? Like, five minutes minutes, or ten minutes minutes? Do we call someone, or-”

“It’ll be fine,” Sherlock interjected, shifting closer, and John snapped his eyes to him, skeptical. “It always is.” He pulled his mobile out, turning the screen toward John. “And I have perfectly good reception. If it doesn’t start up again, I’ll just call Mike.”

John looked at the screen, and then swallowed, sucking a breath up his nose before slowly gusting it from his mouth. “Okay,” he breathed, nodding as he tilted his head back against the wall. “Okay. …How many minutes has it been?”

Sherlock smiled, slipping his phone back into his bag. “Maybe one,” he replied, and John closed his eyes, fingers clenching white on the bar as his breath rattled. Sherlock watched him, concerned and helpless, and then his fingers touched something inside his backpack, and he snatched it up, an idea igniting in his brain. Slowly, careful not to rock the lift any more than unavoidable, he lowered himself to the ground, crossing his legs beneath him.

“What are you doing?” John asked as Sherlock laid the file out in front of him, flicking the cover back.

“Lestrade dropped off another case this morning,” he explained, waving a hand over the contents. “He’s the inspector I work with at Scotland Yard.”

“Oh, right,” John murmured, shuffling closer along the wall, “the one you have a relationship with.”

“ _Working_ relationship,” Sherlock snarled up at him, and John chuckled, a welcome sight in place of his previous fear. “He’s nearly twice my age.”

“Love conquers all,” the blond quipped, slowly lowering himself down beside Sherlock, back scraping against the wall.

“No, it doesn’t,” Sherlock scoffed, turning through the pages. “It merely temporarily blinds people to flaws; it doesn’t actually _conquer_ anything.”

“You’re a real spot of sunshine, ya know that?” John smirked, and Sherlock sneered at him, prompting another laugh. “So…what is it, then?” he asked, leaning past Sherlock’s shoulder to peer down at the contents.

“Heart attack,” Sherlock replied, glancing at John’s face as he exposed the photographs, but the man didn’t look particularly perturbed. “Or, at least, the police think so.”

“But you don’t,” John surmised, smiling up at him, and Sherlock returned it, shaking his head. “Why not?” the blond continued, and Sherlock blinked, frowning at him, certain he was falling for some kind of trick. John didn’t appear to be mocking him, however, meeting Sherlock’s eyes with a puzzled expression of his own as he waited patiently for a response.

“Um, well,” Sherlock muttered, flipping back to the crime scene photos, “Mr. Landers was left-handed, as evidenced by the position of the TV remote and the fork beside his plate.” He pointed down at one of the photographs, the remnants of the man’s dinner captured on the coffee table in front of his sofa. “He was also diabetic,” he continued, turning to the autopsy report, “but the insulin shot administered with his supper was in his _right_ leg, the only one on that side.”

John frowned, tugging at a corner of the file to bring it closer into his view. “So…you think someone put something in the insulin?” he supposed, and Sherlock nodded, a corner of his mouth twitching in spite of the subject matter.

“His blood sugar was incredibly high when they brought him in that evening,” he said, pointing down at the note on the examiner’s report. “There’s no way he got his full dose of insulin. Unless he died almost immediately after taking it, but-”

“The injection site had already coagulated,” John interjected, nodding as he pulled free the medical examiner’s photograph of the man’s leg. “So it was probably…thirty minutes or so, depending on the size of the needle.”

Sherlock stared at the side of John’s face, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, and then blinked, briskly putting himself back together with a clear of his throat. “Er, yes,” he muttered, and John lifted an eyebrow at him, almost smug. “So it’s more likely the medication was doctored, laced with something to mimic a heart attack.”

“Lots of things can do that though,” John replied, handing Sherlock back the photograph. “Did they find anything else in his bloodwork?”

“No,” Sherlock answered, shaking his head. “At least, not last I heard. Might not even need it though, if we can prove someone else administered the insulin.”

“How?” John pressed, and Sherlock pulled out another photo.

“They left the insulin pen,” he said, pointing at the barely visible sheath of plastic beside the man’s empty plate. “There were no prints on the exterior—which is evidence in itself, really—but hopefully-”

The elevator jolted, lights bursting back on, and John startled, a small gasp escaping him as his head snapped up.

Sherlock smiled, biting his lip to try and stamp it down as he gathered the papers back into the folder. “Told you,” he muttered, rising to his feet, John ascending shakily after him. “It always starts back up again.”

“Yeah, well, don’t jinx it,” John snapped, and Sherlock laughed, slipping the file into his bag as he waited for the doors to open.

They reached the first floor without incident, Sherlock hovering back and pretending not to notice John practically throw himself out onto solid ground, and then headed toward the door, John walking at his shoulder.

“So, hopefully what?” he asked, and Sherlock furrowed his brow down at him. “You said they didn’t find any prints on the exterior, but, hopefully…” He faded away, rolling his hand in the air in prompt.

“Oh,” Sherlock clipped, slipping his hands in his pockets, “yes, hopefully they can find a print on the cartridge inside. Mr. Landers had a reusable insulin pen, so the cartridges-”

“I know,” John interjected, smirking as Sherlock snapped his face to him. “Med student, remember?” he quipped, and Sherlock just _knew_ he was blushing, but it was confirmed as John’s grin brightened. “So,” the blond continued, still smiling rather too smugly to himself as he pushed out the door onto the pavement, waiting for Sherlock to pass through before turning to lock it, “who do you think did it?”

“His son-in-law,” Sherlock blurted, still far too warm even as snow fell lightly around them. “His prints were already in the system from a fraud scheme a few years ago, so they were able to match-”

“Wait, what?” John interjected, face creased perplexedly as he turned back to Sherlock, keys jingling into his pocket. “They already know who it is?”

Sherlock’s stomach evaporated, his throat closing around any hope of sound even as his mouth opened.

John stepped closer, scanning curiously between Sherlock’s eyes. “Why did you tell me all of that if you already knew-” He stopped short, confusion falling to surprise as the lines on his face smoothed out, and he turned back to the door, blinking as he appeared to look clear through it.

Sherlock’s mind was screaming every obscenity it held at him, including some in French he had previously considered forgotten, because now John was going to know, was going to know everything, and all because Sherlock had been too damn _flustered_ to keep up with his own lie!

“You- Did you- That show I did. The first time I called you,” John started, eyes rooting Sherlock to the spot when they met his. “How- How long were you listening?”

Sherlock took in a breath, fully intending to lie, and then something twitched across John’s face, a flicker of a warning, and he closed his mouth, a sigh hissing through his nose as he dropped his gaze.

“You were distracting me,” John continued, voice more breath that words, but the tone was impossible to read, and Sherlock wasn’t about to _look_ at him, slipping his hands in his pockets as he shuffled the toe of his shoe across the slushy pavement. “When-When the lift-”

Sherlock bit his lip, lifting his head with a shrug as he stared at the brick face of the building. “Yeah, well,” he murmured, swallowing down the rasp in his voice, “I’ll be stuck doing the show by myself if you have a nervous breakdown, so…”

John chuckled, and Sherlock dared peer at him through his lashes. The boy’s smile was bright and fond, his eyes twinkling in the glow of the streetlamps, and, as Sherlock watched, a snowflake caught on his lashes, clinging but a moment before melting into his warmth.

It hit him fast and hard, like a knife to the chest, but, instead of blood and agony, he felt like he might fly, and, before he could do something stupid—like compose poetry or pin John to the wall—he looked away, coughing as he shuffled backward. “Well,” he squeaked, pointing a gloved thumb back over his shoulder, “I should…” He trailed away, kicking his heels at the concrete as he hovered, staring at John, who slowly smiled.

“Should?” he prompted, flicking his brows, and Sherlock was abruptly back to stupid again. John chuckled, slipping his hands into the pockets of his rugby jacket. “Hey, what are you doing right now?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed, his head tilting. “What am I doing at 2am on a Friday morning?” he murmured, and John laughed, nodding. “Oh, lots of things. Big plans,” he said grandly, and John grinned.

“Really?” he asked, lifting a brow.

“No,” Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head as he shuffled his feet against the pavement, and John chuckled.

“Well, I’m starved,” the blond said, casting a glance back over his shoulder, “and I know this place up the street that’s open til 4. Most of the food’s a bit dodgy, but the pizza’s good.”

“Not exactly a glowing recommendation,” Sherlock smiled, and John grinned, looking down at his trainers as he kicked at a chunk of ice.

“No,” John allowed, and then lifted his face, Sherlock nearly swallowing his tongue as John fixed him with a smile, “but ya can’t beat the company.”

Sherlock frowned a moment, not sure he’d understood, and then a grin slowly bloomed on his face, his teeth biting down hard on his bottom lip to keep it in check as he turned his blushing cheeks downward. “Is that so?” he quipped, and John laughed, bold and bright in the dark.

“Come on,” he beckoned, bobbing his head as he turned, walking away from Sherlock up the street. “I’ll freeze to the pavement if we stand here much longer.”

“Serve you right,” Sherlock muttered, catching up in three long strides. “If I had a pound for every time you complained about forgetting your scarf-”

“You’d be able to treat me to pizza,” John interjected, beaming as Sherlock gaped down at him, and then they broke into laughter, elbows brushing as they walked, but neither of them seemed to mind enough to move away.

*****

They hadn’t been dates, not technically.

Sherlock had determined the qualifying factors for something being a date to be: 1) The word ‘date’ was used at some point, joking or otherwise, in formulating the plans for the activity. 2) The couple in question consumed some form of food or drink at a location that used tablecloths. And 3) Some type of intimate physical contact occurred throughout the duration of the event.

Only one of these conditions needed to be met in order to classify the outing as a date, and, seeing as none of them had been during the three times he’d seen John in the past four days, they hadn’t been dates. They had simply been pizza on Friday, Sherlock agreeing to go watch John’s game on Saturday when the boy had text him about it, and a run-in at a coffee shop Monday that had turned into three hours of helping one another with final papers. They were not dates, not remotely, all lacking the required elements, but, as Sherlock rode the lift up for the Tuesday show, he couldn’t quite explain that to the fluttering in his stomach.

Maybe it was in the way John was sitting closer and closer to him every time, or the slight blush on his cheeks when he’d introduced Sherlock to his rugby friends, or the times Sherlock pretended not to see him staring, an absentminded smile on his face. Maybe it was everything, maybe it was just _John_ , but, whatever the reason, Sherlock knew for certain he was doomed, irrevocably altered by blue eyes and brilliant smiles. And thigh muscles, because jesus _christ_ those rugby shorts needed to come with a warning, people with heart conditions and those who may be pregnant not permitted to watch.

Sherlock leapt off the lift, his steps brisk with anticipation, having already seen John’s car on the street outside, and his heart skipped as he heard the boy’s voice drifting out of the studio ahead.

“I’m not telling you,” John said, and Sherlock was inches from the door when he pulled up short at the reply.

“Oh, come on, John!” Irene whined, a soft sound thumping out through the crack in the door, her foot no doubt stomping childishly. “Nobody smiles that much without a reason!”

“It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow,” John replied over the squeak of a chair. “Maybe I just caught some of that Christmas spirit.”

“Before or after you fell arse-over-tits?” Irene snapped back, and Sherlock leaned in tightly to the door as John laughed. “Come on, just give me a name!”

“In this day and age?” John scoffed. “You have a name, you can find out where someone takes their dry-cleaning in under five minutes. No.”

“Just a _little_ hint?” Irene begged, something Sherlock may have been a touch more thrilled to hear under different circumstances. “At least tell me what she looks like.”

“Like you,” John said flatly. “I’m secretly in love with you. And I know there’s that whole you-not-liking-men thing to contend with, but I believe our love will overcome.”

“Ha ha,” Irene muttered, and another chair squeaked, wheels rattling over the floor. “Come on, I need _something_! It’ll drive me crazy otherwise. What’s she studying?”

“Seriously?” John laughed, and then sighed. “She’s studying a science, AND THAT’S ALL I’M TELLING YOU!” he urged, and Sherlock’s breath caught.

He staggered back from the door, leaning against the wall as his entire body seemed to go numb, hands shaking at his sides.

‘She’.

John had said ‘she’.

John liked some ‘she’ who was studying a science and made him smile and none of Sherlock’s smiles had ever meant anything at all, and, suddenly, he was 16 again, stumbling upon Victor with his tongue down Peter Belton’s throat out back by the garage during Sherlock’s birthday party.

And, just the same, he had to soldier on; take a few deep breaths and muster up a smile for the camera. Or, in this case, the microphone.

The duo turned to him when he pushed open the door, and Sherlock had to look just to the left of John’s face, the grin now too much to face directly.

“Hey, Dick!” Irene chirped, clapping him on the shoulder. “Long time no see! Where were you all weekend? I tried to call you, like, eight times.”

“Three,” Sherlock corrected, and Irene quirked a brow.

“So you _were_ screening my calls,” she snipped, and Sherlock dropped his eyes, sucking his lips over his teeth guiltily. Irene huffed, her hand withdrawing as she turned to the door, pulling her coat free from the hooks. “Fine,” she sniffed, “see if I give you your Christmas present now.”

“You didn’t get me a Christmas present,” Sherlock snorted, and Irene sneered at him.

“No, but I might’ve. And it might’ve been fantastic. A Christmas hooker for my dear ole Dick!” she pronounced jubilantly, and John laughed, Sherlock mustering a brittle chuckle even as his stomach churned. “Well, I’ll see you two on Friday,” she sighed, wrapping her white scarf around her neck. “Happy Christmas!”

“Happy Christmas,” he and John chorused back, Irene waggling her fingers at them in a wave as she closed the door, and then they were alone, Sherlock’s heart thudding in his throat.

“So,” John said, and Sherlock turned to him, making as little eye contact as possible, “you turn in that paper this morning?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock murmured, and then nodded, swallowing thickly. “Oh, yeah.”

“Any idea when you’ll get the grade back?” John asked, and Sherlock shrugged.

“Probably when the rest of the final exam grades are due. He’s always slow at updating the records,” he replied, and John nodded thoughtfully, turning back to his chair.

“Well, we’d better get started,” he sighed, glancing up at the clock as he settled in. “This close to Christmas, you just _know_ people are gonna be calling in droves.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock murmured, sliding his coat off his shoulders. “Better get started.”

What followed were the longest four hours of Sherlock’s life. As if it wouldn’t have been bad enough sitting there with John to begin with, he had to listen to call after call of heartbroken questions about unrequited sentiments, hating himself for being able to relate to it now.

He couldn’t entirely hide it, either, try as he might, and John’s eyes lingered on him more and more as the evening progressed, his brow steadily furrowing.

“Hey, are you alright?” he asked as they wrapped up, Sherlock delicately avoiding being on even the same side of the room as John as they stored everything away.

“Of course,” he airily replied, pushing in the chairs and avoiding the skeptical look he could see John giving him out of the corner of his eye. “Just tired, I suppose,” he added with a shrug as he grabbed his coat, and John drew up to his side, unhooking his own.

“Yeah, that was a long one,” John sighed, wriggling his arms into his sleeves as he followed Sherlock through the door. “I thought we’d _never_ get that one guy off the phone. I swear, if I have to explain to one more ‘nice guy’ why some poor girl he talked to _once_ doesn’t wanna send him nudes…” He trailed away, rattling his head with an irritable huff as the lift door opened.

Sherlock mumbled in vague reply, foot tapping impatiently on the floor as he watched the numbers tick down, longing for the moment he could escape John’s presence—his hair glowing gold with its captured light, his eyes all the bluer for the contrast of his red jacket, the faint scent of his aftershave wafting like salt spray through the air. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until the door opened, and he burst out with what was very nearly a gasp, barreling toward the door at just-shy-of-suspicious speed.

“Hey, wait up!” John called, hastening to catch up, and Sherlock’s knuckles cracked as his hand formed a fist. “Are you sure you’re alright?” the blond asked, peering concernedly up at him as he drew level. “You’ve been kinda…quiet.”

“I told you,” he snapped, and then swallowed, calming his tone, “I’m just tired.”

“Yeah, okay, Usain Bolt,” John muttered, half jogging to keep up.

The second they hit the pavement, Sherlock tried to make a run for it, but John seemed to be on to him, locking the door in a rush.

“Hey, do you need a ride?” he asked, moving to meet Sherlock where he’d managed a few large steps away. “It’s really cold tonight, and you shouldn’t be walking alone this late anyway.” He tilted his head, eyes soft with concern as they looked over Sherlock, who shivered, though not entirely from the chill.

“I-I can take a cab,” he murmured, shaking his head, and made to turn away again before John stepped forward, cutting him off.

“It’s no trouble,” he assured with a shrug and a winsome smile that made Sherlock want to scream. “We can even hit up that pizza place again, if ya like.”

Sherlock watched him a moment, unable to sort through the tangle of hope and fear in his expression when his own mind was a mess. “I- No, thank you,” he managed to reply, wobbling his head more at the pavement than at John. “I-I’m not very hungry.”

John’s face fell to a frown, Sherlock’s haywire mind brain seeing disappointment where, surely, there was none. “Oh… Well, okay. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, though,” he muttered briskly as Sherlock took another small slide backward. “About tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Sherlock parroted, brow furrowing, and John nodded.

“Yeah, I-I know it’s Christmas Eve, but- Well, I don’t have anywhere to go, so I figured, even though we don’t _have_ to, I’d come in and do the show anyway.” He shrugged, rocking awkwardly back and forth on his heels as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “And I thought, since you haven’t mentioned any plans either… Well, it might be fun,” he muttered, smiling up through his lashes. “We could get Chinese food—I checked, and that place around the corner stays open ‘til 11—and finally get to pick the music ourselves, and-”

“I can’t,” Sherlock interjected, and John startled, eye widening as he faltered back a step, entirely oblivious to the fact that Sherlock wasn’t talking about radio shows and Chinese food, he couldn’t do _any_ of this, couldn’t stand here and pretend for a single second longer that his heart wasn’t ground to dust. “I- My brother’s throwing a party,” he said, which was true, but he hadn’t been planning on attending. “He and my mother. He does it every year, keep himself in the good graces of the rich and powerful. He works for the government,” he added in explanation, and John frowned even as he nodded.

“Oh. Well, that should be fun,” he murmured, his smile frail. “What about before?” he asked, perking up as he shrugged. “We could still do the Chinese food. And you never did get through all two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash,” he added with a cheeky flick of his brows.

Sherlock wanted to punch him, wanted to kiss him, wanted to weep. “It starts quite early,” he replied, lying outright now. “7pm. And I have a meeting with my advisor in the afternoon. I’ll probably just have enough time to go home and change.”

“Right,” John clipped, rocking on his heels. “That-That makes sense. So, I guess I’ll…see you next week?” he said uncertainly, brow creasing as his eyes tried to see through Sherlock’s.

Sherlock smiled, or hoped he did, his body reacting on pure muscle memory now. “Yeah,” he croaked, and then cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’ll-I’ll see ya then.” He nodded, stepping backward as he began to turn, and then paused, turning his face over his shoulder. “Happy Christmas, John,” he wished, tipping his head.

John scanned over his face, an inhale whistling past his lips as he opened his mouth, an inquiry forthcoming, but he stalled, posture relaxing to defeat. “Yeah,” he breathed with a twist of a smile, “you- you too.”

Sherlock nodded, and then turned away, walking as fast as he dared on the slick surface, John’s eyes burning into the back of his neck like a brand.

*****

“You should definitely still go.” John’s voice wafted through 221B, drifting down to where Sherlock stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom. “Just because he’s not going doesn’t mean you can’t. Letting someone have that much control over your life is a dangerous road to start down.”

“Yeah, but I don’t really wanna go without him…” the girl muttered back, and Sherlock could hear John rolling his eyes.

“Do you really though?” he asked. “Or have you just convinced yourself of that since he told you he wasn’t going?”

Silence for a beat.

“Damn,” the girl breathed, and John clicked his tongue.

“There ya go,” he muttered. “Well, I hope that works out for you, Denise, whatever you decide. We’ve gotta take a bit of a break right now for some music, but I’ll be right back so you wonderful people can make me feel a little less lonely spending Christmas Eve at a radio station,” John chuckled, and Sherlock flinched, his fingers faltering as he adjusted the knot of his tie.

The music started, something tinny and cheerful that Sherlock immediately blocked out, lifting an arm to straighten the cuffs of his purple shirt. He hadn’t intended to go to Mycroft’s party, not even after telling John as much, but, after spending all day pacing over the rug and reminding himself over and over again why he couldn’t reply to John’s texts, he needed to get away, even Mycroft’s dull constituents and his mother’s greying friends better than being left alone with his thoughts.

He huffed in frustration, his fingers shaking as he checked the fastenings of his silver cufflinks for the seventh time. He’d gone with the black suit, one of the better options in his closet, but not _the_ best, not wanting to give Mycroft quite that much satisfaction. His thin tie was also black, but alternated in diagonal stripes of shiny and matte, and Sherlock twisted at the knot of it yet again, loosening and tightening the silk.

Finally, he yanked his hands away, shoving them firmly into the pockets of his trousers with a stern mental commandment to cut it out already. It was 9pm, a half hour later than the start of the party, and, once he got a cab, he’d be nearly an hour late, the sweet spot between Mycroft accepting your tardiness and being too far gone to care, and Sherlock did love to catch him at prime irritation. He turned, snatching up his keys from the dresser as he left his room, walking toward the living room just as John’s voice came back on the radio he couldn’t bring himself to turn off.

“ _Aaaaaand_ we’re back with another caller! What’s your Christmas Eve conundrum?”

“I, um- Well, I broke up with this guy a while ago, and…well…”

“You’re looking to reconnect?” John supposed, and Sherlock checked his watch, another three minutes left before he’d be _sure_ to be late enough.

“Yes, well, sort of. I- See, the break up was pretty mutual, and we- Well, we said we might be able to try again when things calmed down, and-and now I just don’t know how to bring it up, ya know?”

John hummed, and Sherlock crossed the room, leaning against the back of his chair as he looked down at his laptop.

“Yeah, that’s a tough one,” John murmured thoughtfully. “Why don’t you start with why exactly you guys broke up? I mean, if you’re comfortable with that.”

“Yeah, I- That’s fine, um... Well, he’s a couple years older than me, so, when he graduated from Hampstead, he stayed in the city for uni, and- I mean, we tried to make it work for a while, but it just…well…”

John didn’t say anything, and Sherlock frowned at the computer, the boy usually quick to murmur agreeably or mutter comfort into the caller’s pauses.

The woman cleared her throat and continued, Sherlock shuffling closer along the armrest of his chair, curious now. “I didn’t know where I’d be going, ya know? I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to _do_ , let alone _where_ , and- Well, it just seemed easier. But, I- I’m at Westminster now—planning to be an early years teacher eventually—and I was hoping... John?”

“Yeah,” John croaked, coughing to reset his voice, “yeah, I-I’m here.”

Absolute silence, even Sherlock holding his breath.

“How-How are ya, Mary?” John murmured, and Sherlock nearly fell off his chair, a relieved puff of a laugh whispering from the woman.

“Good, I-I’m good,” she replied, and Sherlock’s fingernails gripped tightly into the leather.

So, this was Mary, the Mary Mike had mentioned on that first day, the Mary John had very clearly been nowhere near over, the Mary that was probably the very ‘she’ John had been talking to Irene about yesterday.

Sherlock hated her already, even if she did want to be an early years teacher.

“And you?” she blurted, pitch rising nervously, and Sherlock’s fingernails threatened to puncture the leather.

“Good,” John spluttered back. “Real good, I- I’m at Bart’s now. But, I suppose you probably already knew that,” he chuckled awkwardly, and Mary puffed a laugh.

“Yeah, I-I heard,” she replied, and, though he knew there were countless other people listening, Sherlock felt like the only one, his entire body pulled taut as he leaned forward, heart pounding in anticipation of the inevitable question. “So, um…what-what do you…” She trailed away, and Sherlock stopped breathing, lungs burning by the time John replied.

“I- Mary, I-” He sighed, the torment clear even to unpracticed ears. “When we broke up, I-I really did think- I _wanted_ \- But-But now- Well, I sort of- There’s somebody-” John stopped, a shaky breath rattling across the line, the click of his swallow clear in the absolute silence. “God, Mary, I’m sorry,” he whispered, but the woman was quick to interrupt.

“No, no, don’t be,” she assured, and, though clearly disappointed, her tone was nonetheless kind. “I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like this, I- Well, I never did make the best decisions after a few wine coolers.”

John was startled into a bark of laughter, Mary chuckling along. “Still, I- _Fuck_! Oh, shit, sorry, I-I don’t think I can say that.”

Sherlock was the one alarmed into a laugh now, Mary’s giggle intertwining with him now.

“It’s a university radio station,” she muttered, dismissing John’s concern. “There was a condom advertisement on during the break.”

“Really?” John sputtered, and Mary laughed.

“What, don’t you listen to your own station?” she quipped, and John chuckled.

“Normally, yeah, but I- I turned it down to make a call,” he replied, and Sherlock instinctively pulled his silent mobile out of his pocket, finding the missed call notification.

There was a tense silence across the airwaves, the lingering elephant suddenly returning from obscurity.

“I’m happy for you, John,” Mary said, a hint sad, but still sincere. “Really. And I-I hope it works out for you.”

John hissed a brief laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, me too. And thanks, Mary, I- We should catch up sometime. Ya know, not on the air.”

Mary laughed, and even Sherlock had to smile. “Yeah, that sounds good. Your number still the same?”

“Yep,” John chirped, and Mary giggled.

“Well, alright,” she said, and then paused. “I feel like I should make some sort of official apology or something,” she muttered hastily. “You know, just in case your someone is the jealous type.”

John laughed, the sound back to its usual splendor, and Sherlock’s stomach somersaulted. “No, don’t worry about it, we’re not even- I mean, I’m _trying_ , god help me, but he’s _so_ difficult to get a read on.”

Sherlock’s mobile slipped from his hand, falling with a heavy _thunk_ to the hardwood. “He?” he croaked, eyes straining in their sockets as his heart pounded hard enough to rattle his bones.

Mary just laughed, and Sherlock jumped, forgetting for a moment that the world was still turning outside of his reeling mind. “Aren’t you worried he’ll hear you talking about him?” she asked.

“Naw,” John replied, “he’s at a Christmas party right now anyway.”

Sherlock flew across the room, palms slamming into the table as he braced himself on either side of his laptop, breaths hissing in rabid puffs as he gaped down at the screen.

“Oh, well, in that case,” Mary answered slyly, “tell me everything! How does he stack up to your lift test?”

“Well, actually,” John laughed, and Sherlock’s fingers gripped white around the edge of the table, “it’s funny you should mention that, because that actually _happened_!”

“What?!” Mary spluttered as John laughed, but Sherlock heard no more, barreling down the stairs in three great bounds before grabbing his coat and flying out the door.

*****

The ‘On Air’ light was illuminated when he arrived, so he paced outside the studio door, trying to plan out what to say through the haze of panic and disbelief.

John could’ve meant someone else, after all, a different he. Who was also at a Christmas party. And who he had also been stuck in a lift with. That could happen. The probability was downright laughable, but the probability that John _liked_ him? Well, that even more so.

The sign dimmed, and Sherlock lunged for the door, arm outstretched, and then stalled, hand brushing the cold metal of the handle. Terror gripped him like a plunge into ice water, his chest so tight, his pounding heart could’ve played the muscles like strings, but he had to know. He had to. Swallowing down the rising nausea, his head still spinning with words he hadn’t yet decided on, he threw open the door, striding inside.

John started when he entered, spinning toward the door with wide eyes as he fell back against the table. “Sherlock,” he sighed with relief, hanging his head as he stood straight again. “What are you doing here?” he asked, brow furrowing, and then he blinked, expression stretching wide as his eyes roved down Sherlock’s body. His lips clapped shut, a swallow moving down his throat before he tore his gaze back to Sherlock’s eyes, and that more than anything emboldened Sherlock into speech.

“Was it me?” he asked, and John frowned, tilting his head. “On the radio. Earlier,” Sherlock clarified, stepping further into the room, slowly closing the distance between them. “Were you talking about me?”

John’s eyes stretched to saucers, his feet shuffling a step back as his hand started to quiver. “I-I-”

“Because you said- You said they were at a Christmas party,” he interjected, rolling his hands through the air in anxious gesture, “and-and that you’d been stuck in a lift with them, and-“

“Sherlock,” John said, stepping forward as Sherlock started to pace, but, now that he’d begun, he found he needed to finish.

“-while the statistically probability of that happening twice to someone your age is low, it’s not entirely impossible. So, if it wasn’t me, we can just-just-”

“It was.”

Sherlock stopped dead, breath catching in a hiss as he blinked out at the wall, because, in spite of all the statistics, all the odds, he hadn’t ever expected, hadn’t dreamt… “What?” he breathed, turning to look at John over his shoulder.

The blond sighed, running a hand back through his hair. “I- It was you,” he muttered, shifting a shaky hand toward Sherlock in gesture, his eyes seemingly unable to hold the wide grey ones. “I-I was talking about you.”

Sherlock blinked, silence stretching out around them for a long moment before he could kick his brain back into action. “But-But you said- Yesterday, with-with Irene-”

“Irene?” John parroted, frowning as he rattled his head, trainers rustling closer across the carpet. “What does Irene have to do with anything?”

“You were talking to her,” Sherlock said, waving an arm out toward the table, where the conversation had taken place. “She was asking you about the person you were interested in. You said it was a she.”

“A she?” John questioned, face pinching in even further confusion. “What are you-” He stopped, expression slackening in understanding as he turned his face toward the table. “No, I- _She_ said ‘she’,” he urged, pointing out at the imaginary figure of the woman. “I just went along with it. I-I thought, if I told her it was a guy, she’d figure out it was you somehow, and then- Well…” He trailed off, bobbing his head with a flick of his brows, and Sherlock huffed a weak laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmured, nodding, a stunned smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, she would’ve been- Yeah...”

They fell silent, meeting one another’s eyes in brief flashes, and then John sucked in a breath, brow creasing once again.

“Is that why you were acting so weird yesterday?” he asked, tilting his head. “When I asked you out?”

“You didn’t ask me out,” Sherlock muttered, looking down at the carpet as his neck burned. “You asked me to come here and eat Chinese food.”

“Fine,” John clipped, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as he moved even closer, the distance narrowing to mere feet between them, “when I asked you _in_ , then? Which, when you think about it, is a lot more obvious of a date.”

“A date?” Sherlock spluttered, mouth dropping open as he blinked owlishly at John, who, after a moment’s confusion, smiled.

“Well, yeah,” he said, shrugging a shoulder as he sidled a step closer.

Sherlock simply gaped at him. “You-You were-”

“Yep,” John chirped, smile slowly approaching a smirk as his trainers crept toward Sherlock’s wingtips.

“You want-” Sherlock stammered, but John cut him off with a nod.

“Yes,” he drawled, the consonant drawing out with a hiss past his teeth, glittering white in a devilish grin.

Sherlock’s mouth moved soundlessly a moment, his mind growing exponentially cloudier as the space inched shut between them. “You mean-”

“I do,” John interjected, tipping his head smugly, and Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered as his warm breath passed over them.

He shook his head, both in denial and in hopes of clearing it. “You-You don’t even know what I’m going to-”

John’s lips were warm and chapped as they pressed to Sherlock’s, his fingers tentative on the back of his neck, and Sherlock barely had time to talk his stomach out of leaping clear up his throat before the blond was pulling away, his fingers swirling circles at the edge of Sherlock’s curls. He leaned back enough to meet Sherlock’s eyes, blue clouding with concern. “Okay?” he whispered tremulously, brow furrowing as he scanned Sherlock’s slack face. He started to pull away, hand beginning to slide from Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock snapped back to himself, catching onto the sleeve of John’s grey jumper to hold him in place.

He nodded, speech functions a little slower returning than motor, and then swallowed, clearing his throat. “Okay,” he breathed, and, after a moment’s hesitation, John beamed Sherlock’s knees to jelly.

“Well, alright then,” he murmured, and then his fingers were in Sherlock’s hair, holding fast as he surged back up, capturing Sherlock’s mouth with his own.

Sherlock gasped, the whole thing somehow even more startling the second time, and then John tipped his head, deepening the kiss, and the whole room tilted. His fingers gripped tight to John’s jumper, the grey knit practically holding him up, but he must have been a bit too enthusiastic, because John’s lips pulled away with a hiss, his chest twitching under Sherlock’s nails. “Sorry, I-” he began to stammer, moving to step back, and then broke off into a sharp yelp as John’s hand gripped hard to his waist, yanking him forward. He blinked, breath gusting over John’s blurry face as the blond shook his head.

“No,” he said, voice dragging over gravel, and Sherlock shivered, his chest quivering into contact with John’s. “No,” the blond repeated, an earnest breath, and then pulled Sherlock flush against him, hand gripping just shy of painful into his hair.

Sherlock’s moan was mostly muffled by John’s mouth, but the man could no doubt feel the vibration of it, his tongue tingling a stripe over Sherlock’s bottom lip in response. Sherlock’s other hand grabbed at John’s waist, trying to pull him somehow closer as his fingers clenched to a fist in the cotton, and John, intuitive as ever, obliged.

Pinning Sherlock to his chest, he twisted them, Sherlock’s feet scrambling not to get tangled with John’s as he was dragged backward, John half carrying him over the carpet.

His lips popped away from John’s with a gasp as the back of his thighs slammed against the table with a disconcertingly loud rattle, and Sherlock started to turn to assess the damages when John pulled him back by the chin, fusing their mouths together once more. Sherlock refused to call it a whimper, but he made _some_ sort of rather shameful sound as John’s tongue pushed past his lips, startlingly slow and soft, and Sherlock yanked at the man’s collar, urging him on.

John might have chuckled then, but Sherlock’s mind skittered too far away to remember as John pushed at his chest, Sherlock’s legs losing their grip as he fell to the tabletop.

The movement broke the contact of their lips for a moment, and Sherlock sucked in a greedy gasp of air, a hopeless attempt to quell the dizzying spirals in his brain before John was there again, hips sliding between Sherlock’s knees as he tipped his chin up, the blond now slightly taller. That time, Sherlock was completely comfortable with whimpering, the sound grounding out into a moan as John swiped over his tongue with his own. Pale fingers tugged mercilessly at John’s jumper as Sherlock arched his back, trying to get as close as he could, and John wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling Sherlock’s chest up to his.

Abruptly, John snapped away from his mouth, and Sherlock whined in protest, but the sound was quickly swallowed by a groan as lips latched onto his neck, moving slowly down toward his collar in turns of tongue and teeth. John hooked a finger around the knot of his tie, loosening it just enough to peel down the collar of his shirt, latching hard onto a collarbone, and Sherlock threw his head back with a cry loud enough to wake the dead.

He was dizzy and hot and _aching_ , his cock going from interested to demanding as it strained against the front of his trousers, and Sherlock wrapped his ankles around the back of John’s legs, trying to pull him closer, pull him onto the table, pull him somewhere that wasn’t where he was, because that was certainly not going to be good enough.

John lifted away from his neck, giving Sherlock a scant second to breathe before wrapping his hand into Sherlock’s tie, yanking hard enough to give him whiplash as he pulled him back into a bruising kiss, and Sherlock was going to break his own rule and beg in a minute if he didn’t get some friction. As if reading his mind, John’s hand was suddenly at Sherlock’s waist, tugging him nearly off the table as he pulled their hips together, and Sherlock practically sobbed with relief as his cock pressed against John’s through their trousers.

Suddenly, a beep echoed through the room, and they both startled, gasping as they snapped their heads apart, blinking blearily around.

“The show,” John panted, eyes dark and slow to focus as he looked past Sherlock to the microphone, as if he too had completely forgotten where they were. “I- I have to-”

“Right,” Sherlock huffed back, nodding at John’s chest, “and I- The-The party.”

“That’s real?” John asked, tilting his head, and Sherlock frowned, sitting up as John leaned back.

“Yes,” he muttered. “What, you think I wear this to buy milk?” he mocked, flipping at the tip of his tie.

John chuckled, sending Sherlock’s stomach into a somersault as a lecherous grin spread over his face. “I dunno,” he crooned, and then pulled sharply on Sherlock’s tie again, stopping him just centimeters from his lips. “I kinda like it,” he whispered, words brushing hot over Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock trembled, about to close the gap between them when the beep sounded again, the one minute to air warning. John groaned, pulling away to glare accusatorily at the microphone. “Honestly,” he snarled, shaking his head as he moved toward the control panel, “you’d think people would have better things to do on Christmas Eve than call a fucking radio station!”

“But you’re answering,” Sherlock remarked, twitching a smile as John glared up at him, swinging the microphone arm toward where he was standing beside the table. Sherlock looked down at his knees, pale fingers twisting together as he considered what _he_ was supposed to do now, and then snapped his head back to John with wide eyes. “Come with me!” he blurted, and the blond stilled, fingers hovering over the buttons.

“Pardon?” he asked, and Sherlock slid off the table, moving to his side.

“To the party,” he added, and John’s mouth fell open. “We won’t stay very long. Just enough time to steal a bottle of champagne and stuff our pockets with hors d’oeuvres.”

John laughed, shaking his head down at the table, and then the smile slowly wilted off his face. “I dunno, Sherlock, I-”

“Please?” Sherlock pressed, and John visibly began to crumble, but there was still a small hesitation written in the wrinkle between his brows. “We can stop at your flat if you want to get changed,” Sherlock offered, and John shot him a look, confirmation he’d hit the mark.

“I- Sherlock, this is your _family_! I don’t think-”

“It’ll be fine,” Sherlock assured, smiling at John’s narrowed eyes. “It’s just Mycroft and my mother. And what mother wouldn’t be thrilled at her son bringing home a _doctor_ for Christmas?” he added with a grin, and John laughed.

“Well, I’m not a doctor yet,” he countered, and Sherlock scoffed.

“Close enough, and she’d like you regardless. She’s always had a weakness for blonds.”

John tipped his head, flicking his eyebrows. “I don’t know if I’m flattered or disturbed,” he mused, and Sherlock chuckled.

“Probably both,” he replied, shrugging a shoulder, and then looked down at their feet, sucking his lips over his teeth. “So?” he finally dared, peering at John through his lashes.

The man stared at him, eyes surveying his face, and then, without a word, turned back to the control panel, smashing at buttons before tipping the microphone up to his mouth. “Welcome back, guys and dolls and variations thereupon. Afraid I’ve got a bit of bad news—well, for _you_ anyway, I’m pretty damn thrilled about it. Seems a certain _someone_ needs an escort to a Christmas party,” he said, grinning at Sherlock’s startled expression, “and I’d hate to let him down.”

Sherlock bit his lip around a smile, ducking his head to hide the blush burning up from his collar, but John seemed to have noticed, chuckling smugly.

“So, I’m gonna call it a night, but we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled programming on Thursday with your friendly neighborhood consulting detective and I, and then Friday’s Roundtable with The Woman, so illustrious, she’s claimed the entire sex,” he said brightly, and Sherlock couldn’t help but chuckle, muffling it with a palm. “From everyone here at QMUL Radio, Happy Christmas, and may none of you get stuck sitting next to the creepy uncle,” he bade, and Sherlock snorted, John smirking at him as he began powering things down.

They were quick about it, stowing things into cabinets so haphazardly, they were likely to fall out when the doors were opened, but no one would be in there before them, so they’d hopefully remember to catch them.

John’s mobile rang as they headed out of the building, his steps slowing on the pavement as they walked toward the main street to hail a cab. “Hello?” he answered, and Sherlock watched the odd tangle of emotions play out across John’s face. He pulled the phone away from his ear, gesturing for Sherlock to take it. “They wanna talk to you,” he said lightly, shrugging a shoulder, and Sherlock took the phone, lifting it warily to his head.

“Hello?” he questioned, and was met with absolute silence for a blissful second before a shriek broke the calm.

“YOU?!” Irene bellowed, and Sherlock yanked the phone away from his ear, glaring furiously down as John burst into laughter. “You’re the guy?!”

“What guy?” Sherlock muttered, and Irene sniffed as John snorted.

“John’s guy!”

“John’s guy?”

“Yes, John’s guy!”

“Which John?”

“Sherlock!”

“Well, it’s a very common name,” he said airily, John positively shaking beside him.

Irene huffed. “Fine, have it your way,” she snapped, “but we _will_ be talking about this, Sherlock. In detail!”

“Sorry, Irene,” Sherlock replied, “but I don’t kiss and tell.”

“ARE YOU FUCKING-”

“Happy Christmas!” Sherlock chirped, and then hung up, John’s arm shaking with laughter as he took the mobile back.

“You know that’s the only thing anyone’s gonna wanna talk about on Thursday,” John said, smiling sidelong up at him.

“And?” Sherlock countered, and John shrugged.

“Just… Well, what do we say?”

“The truth, I suppose,” he answered, and John blinked up at him in surprise. “It’ll do wonders for ratings,” he added, and John laughed.

“Is that all I am to you?” he asked, lifting a hand to his chest in mock offense. “A publicity stunt?”

“Not entirely,” Sherlock muttered, and John shook his head.

“I don’t believe you,” he snipped, and Sherlock smiled.

“Give me time, John,” he said softly, reaching down to twine tan fingers with his own, both of them neglecting their gloves. “Give me time.”

**Author's Note:**

> I keep asking this, but, every time, new people show up, so, if anyone is going to Sherlock Seattle, hit me up here or [on Tumblr](http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/)!


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